


Raphael's Dragon

by Silbrith



Series: Caffrey Conversation [18]
Category: White Collar
Genre: Gen, Mystery, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-24
Updated: 2016-10-19
Packaged: 2018-08-09 03:49:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 63,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7785634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silbrith/pseuds/Silbrith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Case: As Neal and Peter investigate the theft of a Raphael masterpiece, an enemy returns to seek vengeance. Mozzie is abducted. Kramer makes issues for Neal. Sara and her ex-boyfriend Bryan are in town. H/C: tunnel sequence, drugging. Fluff: Neal's art exhibition. April - May 2005. #16 in Caffrey Conversation AU where Peter recruited Neal instead of arresting him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Meadowlark Sings

_Notes: Raphael's Dragon takes place in the spring of 2005. Although this story is part of the Caffrey Conversation series, it can stand on its own._

_In the pre-series Caffrey Conversation AU created by Penna Nomen, Peter recruited Neal in 2003 when he was 24. In exchange for a confession, he was given immunity for past crimes and started working for the FBI as a consultant. In the fall of 2004 he entered Columbia University's graduate program in art as a part-time student. In the spring of 2005 Peter and Neal were appointed to the Interpol art crimes task force. The work on the new task force is part time and places additional emphasis on art crimes for the White Collar team. Readers new to this AU may wish to refer to the notes at the end of this chapter for additional background information._

* * *

 

**Thomas Paine Square, New York City. April 14, 2005. Thursday morning.**

_The meadowlark sings on the window ledge._

Neal Caffrey ducked out of the Federal Building and crossed the street. His destination was Thomas Paine Park, a small island of trees and grass a block away.

Why couldn't Mozzie have simply called? Normally he didn't pull Neal away from work. Mozzie was a shadow-dweller, a man who sought dim retreats in secluded locations. What made him brave the glare of the morning sun in the heart of the civic center?

Not that Neal complained when he got Mozzie's text message. Nothing compelling was going on at work, and the daily briefing wasn't due to start for a half-hour. An excuse to be outside in springtime was not to be missed. The gingko trees were starting to bud out. It was warm enough that women had emerged from the protective cocoons of their coats. Their colorful dresses blazed brightly against the backdrop of gray concrete sidewalks.

A street guitarist was strumming ballads at the entrance to the park. Many of the steel benches were occupied by New Yorkers taking their morning coffee outside. By midday all the benches would be filled. Neal found Mozzie absorbed in reading a thick, well-worn paperback.

Neal sat down next to him and glanced at the book cover. "Dante's _Divine Comedy_?"

"I find it surprisingly relevant to life in New York City." Neal waited for him to explain why he thought the seven circles of Hell had something in common with New York, but enlightenment was not to come. Instead Mozzie's mind wandered off in an unexpected direction. "It must have been cosmic fate which dictated the suit dub me _Dante_. He has his moments of perspicacity."

"Yes, he does." Neal smiled at the memory. Over a year ago, Mozzie had called Neal's hotel room in St. Louis, not realizing that FBI agent Peter Burke was also in the room. Neal was zoned out with cold medicine so Peter answered his cell phone. He'd never met Mozzie but after talking with him on the phone, Peter feared he was a bad influence and nicknamed him Dante. Peter once called Mozzie the devil on Neal's shoulder. The imp liked to portray himself as Neal's guardian angel. Neal viewed him to be more like Puck with generous scoops of both personalities. Which one was on the bench this morning?

"In honor of my namesake, I've decided to expand my manuscript collection. Do you know where I could acquire _The Divine Comedy_?"

"I hope you're not looking for an original manuscript. None has survived."

"I know that—although I suspect somewhere deep within the recesses of an old monastery in Italy, pages in the master's own handwriting may be found. Or perhaps in the Vatican Secret Archives. You know, we really need to plan a trip to Italy once your application for the PhD program is approved. In the meantime, I'm willing to settle for one of the manuscript copies from the fourteenth century."

Neal shrugged. "You're a little late. I'd stolen a manuscript but it's been returned to the owner."

Mozzie's groan of disappointment was loud enough to make the pigeons feeding on the sidewalk fly off in a panic. "How could you?"

"I didn't know you were interested in it," Neal said helplessly. "It was one of the crimes I confessed to in order to gain immunity from prosecution. I picked items that could be easily restored and where I didn't like the current owners. I stole the Barberino manuscript in Milan for Klaus Mansfeld."

"Ah yes, the Leopard. What a genius he was. A man of exquisite refinement, I'm told. I regret never having met him. He was the ideal choice to act as your mentor in Europe. Dante had Virgil to serve as his guide. You had the Leopard."

This was becoming uncomfortable. Mozzie wasn't aware that Neal had worked undercover in an operation to capture Klaus, and he knew nothing about how Klaus died. It was one of the few secrets Neal kept from Mozzie. To change the subject, Neal launched into a description of the manuscript. "The theft had been a commission job. The buyer was an ex-KGB officer living in London. I had no regrets in telling the FBI about him. The manuscript was recovered and restored to the Milan Library."

Mozzie sighed with feeling, shaking his head despondently. "I'll keep searching. What other treasures did you tell the FBI about?"

"Much as I enjoy being outside, was there a purpose other than asking me about Dante to bring me here? I need to get back for the briefing."

"Oh yes, about that . . ."

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

"The Dutchman's back in town."

After Neal tossed that salvo into the meeting, he sat back to enjoy the fireworks. The effect was instantaneous. In unison, Diana, Jones, and Travis snapped to attention, and Peter was right with them.

The briefing had already started by the time he returned. Peter raised an eyebrow at his late appearance but didn't comment. Normally Neal arrived early. He must have wondered at the cause of the delay.

Neal waited patiently while the others made their reports. All routine matters. Nothing to compare with what he had in store. At the end, when Peter asked for any additional updates, Neal lobbed his bombshell.

Curtis Hagen, the man Peter called the Dutchman, had dropped out of sight almost two months ago. The last address anyone had for him was for a house in Hoboken, New Jersey. He was suspected of art and bond forgeries for over fifteen years, but there had never been enough evidence to arrest him.

During the investigation of a Corot forgery a couple of months ago, Hagen had been linked to Ydrus, an international criminal group. Ydrus was a new player in the space and had quickly advanced in the ranks. It was now a major instigator of art crimes and weapons smuggling. When the White Collar team raided the house in Hoboken, shredded paper hinting at a connection between Hagen and Raphael's _St. George and the Dragon_ had been discovered. That painting had been stolen the previous summer from the National Gallery in Washington. Neal theorized that Hagen had taken it with the idea of selling multiple forgeries on the black market.

For a moment everyone sat in stunned silence, but that quickly turned into the predicted hailstorm of questions. Peter held out a hand to lower the din and spoke for them all when he demanded details.

"Mozzie texted me to meet him shortly before the briefing was due to start. That's why I was late. Yesterday, an acquaintance of his had talked with Hagen in Times Square. The Dutchman was inquiring about smuggling operations but didn't mention the specifics. Mozzie's contact got the impression that Hagen only recently returned to New York."

"After our sting collapsed," Jones said, "I've continued to track chatter about a stolen Raphael being offered for sale. Rumors are still in circulation, but nothing actionable has risen to the surface."

That op's failure had been a blow. Jones had worked up an ideal cover as a South American drug lord in the market for the painting, but the sting blew up at the last minute. The seller could have gotten cold feet, but a much more troubling possibility was that a mole for Ydrus was working within the Bureau. The insurance giant Sterling-Bosch had unearthed an Ydrus informant in their midst a couple of months ago.

"In view of what happened during the sting, we're going to treat this information as highly confidential," Peter said. "Has Hagen eluded capture for so long because he's being helped by someone in the Bureau?"

"It makes sense," Travis commented. "I'd like to think our resources are sufficient to have brought someone like him to justice long before now." Travis should know. He was White Collar's tech expert and electronics guru.

As the others discussed strategies for tracking Hagen, Neal pulled out a notepad and began to doodle. Peter had named the Dutchman after the _Flying Dutchman_ , a ghost ship disappearing into the fog. Sailing ships on the ocean, buffeted by the waves . . . landing in ports. As he covered his paper with ships, one question emerged from the fog. Neal broke into Jones's riveting discussion of plastering wanted posters in taxi cab dispatch centers with a challenge: "Why here?"

Diana cocked her head, looking exasperated. "For those of us who aren't tuned to your internal wavelength, care to give a little more detail?"

"Why did Hagen come back to New York? We know he fled the house in Hoboken in a hurry, most likely because he'd been tipped off we were on to him. Hagen could work anywhere in the world. Why choose a place where he knows we're watching for him?"

"You're our expert on the criminal mind," Jones rebuffed. "Why would you have returned?"

"It has to be a job," he said, "but it wouldn't be forging _St. George and the Dragon_. I could do that anywhere. I'd pick a place where I wasn't known and smuggling paintings was easy—low airport security or easy access to ship transport. After the attacks on September 11, New York's security was beefed up tenfold. So, if we discard the Raphael as a possibility, we're left with a different job. It's probably a contract and lucrative enough to make it worth the risk."

"He's targeted a museum?" Jones suggested.

Neal nodded. "That or a wealthy collector."

"Any contract would most likely have come through Ydrus," Peter noted. "We suspect Ydrus is making use of Azathoth's malware for museum heists. Several paintings were stolen from the National Museum of Modern Art in Tokyo last month. The museum's security software had been infected with his code. Last week one of the paintings was recovered from a fence who claimed he'd bought it from Ydrus. It's the clearest indication we've had yet that Ydrus is working arm in arm with Azathoth."

The unknown cybercriminal, who'd been dubbed Azathoth because of his fascination with the world created by horror writer H.P. Lovecraft, had been on their hit list since they'd first encountered his museum security malware last fall. For the past several months his program had been used in heists in Europe and Asia, but none in the States. Had he decided to make an encore performance at the Met? Would the Dutchman's return lead to a breakthrough on Azathoth and Ydrus as well?

"Where do we stand on the anti-malware program Neal's friend Aidan is writing?" Diana asked.

"Our team's been running tests on the beta version for the past few weeks," Travis said. "It's ready for its trial by fire."

Peter nodded with satisfaction. "If Hagen's here to rob a museum and we can find the malware, we'd have a heads up on where his target is."

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

What had started out as a routine briefing quickly turned into a strategy session. Midday, no one wanted to stop so they called down to Jacob's Coffee Shop on the ground floor for sandwiches and continued their work over lunch.

Diana ripped open a bag of pita chips and passed it around. "Are there any exhibits currently running that you think would be particularly attractive to Hagen?"

Neal glanced at a spreadsheet on his laptop. "There are several promising candidates. The Guggenheim has an exhibit on Paul Klee. For the past month the Museum of Modern Art has been featuring the works of Gustav Klimt. Last week the Met opened an exhibit on Goya called _Contradictions_. Any of those would be prime targets."

"If this had happened at the beginning of the year, trying to convince museum officials to use an unknown anti-malware program would have been an excruciating exercise in foot-dragging," Jones noted. "Now we can take advantage of Peter and Neal's status on the Interpol art crimes task force."

Jones was right. When they'd been selected for the new task force, they'd acquired a cachet which sliced through the normal red tape they would have encountered. The task force had the backing of the International Council of Museums and along with it, the pledge of full cooperation by member museums.

"Is Win-Win's facial recognition software ready to be used?" Diana asked.

Travis nodded. "This will be its first major test. If we're to have any chance of tracking down Hagen without engaging in a large-scale manhunt, we'll have to make use of the latest technology in our toolkit. Assuming we'll be able to receive permission from the museums to provide us with their surveillance camera footage, we can use the software to make quick work of processing the feeds. By running it on several computers simultaneously, we'll be able to minimize the amount of time required."

Neal smiled to himself. Who would have thought when he joined the FBI that the team would be grateful for his family connections?

When Peter recruited him in Saint Louis, Neal never talked about his parents. His mother was in WITSEC, his father a convicted murderer. They were part of a past he kept quarantined from his new life. Now he'd been reunited with the white sheep of the family—his mother's Caffrey relatives. Henry was on the marketing team for the facial recognition software at his investigation company, Winston-Winslow. Initially Win-Win had targeted airports for their product, but Travis convinced Henry to allow White Collar to beta test it in their operations. Henry was currently in Paris overseeing the evaluation of the software at De Gaulle International Airport.

 "Neal, you and I will put that task force membership to work this afternoon when we speak with the museums," Peter said. "I'm counting on that silver tongue of yours to smooth over any rough waters."

"Besides the museums, what other locations should we target?" Travis asked.

"If Hagen's working on a forgery, more than likely he'll need art supplies," Neal speculated. "No matter how well equipped you are, it's inevitable you run short of something. Many of the largest supply houses are in Lower Manhattan: Chelsea, the Village, SoHo. I'd start with those especially since he was seen in Chelsea. Hagen may also have his studio there."

"But even if we find him, will we be able to obtain a warrant?" Diana asked.

"In this case we will," Jones said. "We should be able to search the premises by using Section 213 of the Patriot Act—the delayed search warrant notification. That's what we used with Rinaldi at the Lynx Mountain Ski Resort in February. The data on Rinaldi's computer established his links to both Ydrus and Hagen. Since Ydrus is involved in supplying arms to international terrorist groups, they fall within the umbrella of Section 213."

Diana wasn't satisfied. "But even if we search his studio, unless we catch Hagen in the act of selling a forgery, we won't have a case. So what if he possesses a Picasso or a Raphael for that matter? It doesn't prove he stole it. He could claim he'd bought it or even that it was a gift, and he didn't realize it was stolen."

"True," Peter said, "but if we discover records proving he sold forgeries as originals, then we have him. And now we have the means of catching him in the act if he tries to pull a heist at one of the New York museums. Our probability of success is not high," he added, glancing at Travis, the team's biggest sci-fan fan. "This is one of those moments when Mr. Spock would quote to Captain Kirk the odds of success being approximately 7,824.7 to 1, but Kirk managed to triumph over the odds. If Kirk could do it, so can we."

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

After lunch Neal and Peter divided up the names of the major art museums in the city. With the art crimes task force having paved the way, they were able to accomplish in an afternoon what in the past would have taken a week of negotiations. Once they'd secured approval, Travis and his support team worked on the implementation. By the time Neal left work, the White Collar lab resembled Mission Control at NASA with technicians hunched over every computer monitor in the room as they processed the first footage from the museums.

Late in the day Mozzie texted Neal. Another cryptic message—this time requesting a meeting in his bunker after work. Two messages in one day? Mozzie was on a roll.

The bunker was under the Aloha Emporium, a Hawaiian-themed store just south of the Columbia University campus. Mozzie had gone into partnership with the store's owner, Billy Feng, at the beginning of the year to launch a line of Hawaiian organic honey products. The venture had turned into such a success that for the first time in his life, Mozzie could live comfortably off a legitimate source of income. He'd grown increasingly picky about his less-legal pursuits.

When he arrived, Neal grabbed a rice bowl in the café for his supper and jogged down the narrow flight of stairs to the basement. The door to Mozzie's bunker was concealed in one of the cabinets and secured by a cutting-edge security alarm.

The bunker served as a combination office and safe refuge in case of impending nuclear disaster or a host of other potential catastrophes. Mozzie had equipped it with a futon for sleeping, a tiny kitchenette and a bathroom. It had water reserves, backup power generator, and an air filtration system designed by NASA. One of its best features was that it opened in the rear to a long-forgotten side branch of the university tunnel system. Mozzie could use it to traverse the campus underground, exiting at any of a number of points. It was the most secure of any of his safe houses to date.

Mozzie was seated at his worktable, poring over a sheet of equations. He'd already opened a bottle of honey wine.

Neal helped himself to a glass. "You caused quite a furor at White Collar with your news. Have you heard anything more about Hagen?"

"The ether's gone quiet, but Hale's promised to let me know if Hagen contacts him again. You didn't mention Hale's name, did you?"

"Of course not." Hale was an old friend and associate, someone Mozzie had been working with long before he met Neal.

"Was the lady suit at the briefing?"

"Diana? Yes, she was there."

"How busy is she on the Dutchman case?"

"We're all working full time on the case, Mozz."

"Well, she'll need to stop what she's doing. I have new instructions for her." That Mozzie had joined forces with Diana was probably more astonishing than Neal being a student at Columbia. And it was all because of Azathoth.

As part of a multi-pronged strategy to apprehend the cybercriminal, she'd volunteered to write Lovecraft fan fiction. She posted her first story last month—"Arkham Files: Visions from Beyond." That same month she received a mysterious comment written in code to one of her chapters. Mozzie had been working with her to decipher the code.

At first glance it was hard to imagine how Mozzie and Diana could possibly declare a truce, but two factors were in their favor. One was Mozzie's desire to mold his character in her stories to his liking and the other was his unparalleled expertise with abstruse codes. Diana could rail, and she did, at Mozzie's contempt for the law and government regulations, but even she grudgingly admitted that they needed him.

Mozzie took off his glasses to polish the lenses with a handkerchief. "You remember I suspected Azathoth was using a variant of the Grand Chiffre?"

Neal nodded. "You had Diana reply with a Ginsberg quote in a code of your own devising."

"It came to me this afternoon as I was cataloguing my tunnel slime samples. Did I tell you I'd discovered yet another variety of tunnel slime? This brings the number to nine discrete types, providing further corroboration to my hypothesis that extraterrestrials have disguised their appearance to resemble bees and are living among us. When I report my findings to SETI—"

"Mozzie, the code?" Neal broke in. If he let Mozzie veer onto the fertile soil of his theory of extraterrestrial evidence in the tunnel slime of the university tunnels, Neal would never find out what he'd learned. As it was, Mozzie was already gazing longingly back at his computer.

He snapped his fingers in front of Mozzie's face. "The code?" he repeated.

"Oh yes, fascinating string of words. Here it is: doyouliketreasurehuntsfindyourselfintheskyoverbritain."

Neal set down his wine glass as he mulled over the riddle. "The first part— _Do you like treasure hunts_ —that sounds like Azathoth."

"That house where he held you and Peter last fall could be viewed as a type of treasure hunt—one with fatal consequences if you failed."

" _Find yourself in the sky over Britain_ . . . Maybe a constellation? Azathoth is addressing Diana. She's made it clear in her notes that she's a woman. He could be equating her with Cassiopeia or Andromeda."

"A worthwhile possibility to consider. Diana's user name for her stories, Lomaria, sounds a little like a constellation. Or Azathoth could be telling her to look for her name somewhere in England. He could have written it on a skyscraper, for instance, or a cathedral. But why is he sending her to England?"

Mozzie spun around in his chair to face his desk—he rarely walked in his bunker but insisted on having everything convenient enough to access by rolling his chair, a custom-made replica of a command chair on the Starship _Enterprise_. He claimed it was good practice in case his legs were stricken by a plague brought in by extraterrestrial slime. Opening a drawer, he pulled out a cell phone. The drawer contained at least a dozen phones, all in different colors. Diana's phone was easy to pick out. Mozzie had chosen a Wonder Woman skin for it. When he called Diana, Neal could hear her shout of triumph upon hearing the news.

While Mozzie reported on his discovery, Neal walked over to scan through the books in his bookcase. He missed having a window to look out. Why Mozzie didn't get claustrophobic from the long hours he spent underground was as much a mystery as Azathoth's riddle.

The bookcase was a microcosm of Mozzie's brain with books on history, codes, art, electronics, chemistry, poetry . . . One of the books caught Neal's eye—a book on Cubism. Mozzie must have been researching the Braque painting. Neal pulled the book out, took it over to the futon, and scanned it for references to _Violin and Candlestick_.

That painting was a puzzle. Five years ago he'd helped Klaus steal it. Neal had assumed Klaus later sold it. But a couple of months ago Klaus's ex-wife Chantal had contacted Neal to alert him an unknown buyer was offering a king's ransom for the painting. She believed Klaus never sold it, and it was still in Paris where they'd hidden it. Why anyone would want to pay so much for the Braque was a mystery. Neal skimmed through the text, but it contained no reference to the painting and he returned it to the bookshelf.

"Have you set your date for Paris yet?" Mozzie asked when he finished his call. Neal's choice of book must not have gone unnoticed.

"It will be sometime in late May after classes are over. Fiona's checking her work schedule. She hopes to take a few days off while I'm there."

"Ah yes, the fair Fiona. Your girlfriend would no doubt appreciate the baubles you could buy her if you'd do the sensible thing and let me fence the painting for you. No one would ever know of your involvement. I assume you still haven't mentioned it to Peter?"

"I can't tell him. You know that." What to do with the painting once he retrieved it was a sensitive issue. Since he hadn't mentioned it in his confession to gain immunity, if he returned the painting, he'd be arrested for having stolen it. But he had no desire to see it languish in hiding. The best solution he'd come up with was to leave it at the doorstep of a museum as an anonymous donation.

"You're not the least bit tempted to sell it?" Mozzie asked plaintively. "Think what you could do with all that money. A villa in Europe, your private plane."

Neal snorted. "And how would I explain that to Peter?"

"I could invest the proceeds for you. Don't you owe it to the world to sell the painting to that buyer? You'd put his money to so much better use than whatever he's thinking of."

"Not happening, Mozz. I've left those ways behind."

He sighed. "Such a waste. Still, simply rescuing the painting has a certain allure. You've said I wouldn't be able to access the lady's hiding place, so we'll save her together. I've never worked with you in Europe. It's overdue."

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

By the time Neal arrived at work the next day, Diana had already placed copies of the riddle on everyone's desks and posted an offer for a gourmet lunch to whoever solved it. Did that mean she was prepared to go on a date with Mozzie? Neal was willing to wager the codebreaker would also be the winner, although Peter's odds were a close second. Neal's best guess was that it had something to do with the night sky because of Azathoth's interest in Galileo, but he was stumped on how to tie stargazing to Britain.

The museums were sending in their surveillance footage at a rapid clip. Several art supply stores had also agreed to have their feeds monitored. Neal was scheduled to help weed out the false positives. He enjoyed working in the lab with the techs. During breaks they speculated on the meaning of the riddle.

Midmorning, Neal was reviewing the previous day's data from the Guggenheim Museum when Peter walked into the lab. "Just heard from the FBI office in Boston," he said, pulling over a chair. "There's been a major art theft. A Raphael drawing was stolen from the mansion of a private collector."

"Which one?"

"It's called _Head of a Young Apostle_. It was stolen two days ago while the owner was at work. Targeted hit. Nothing else in the house was stolen."

At Neal's low whistle, Travis stopped working at his computer too. "You're familiar with the work?"

Neal nodded. "That drawing had been auctioned off at Weatherby's London gallery four months ago. It sold for over forty-five million dollars. As I recall, the buyer was anonymous. There was quite a furor at the time, because the Brits didn't want it to leave the country. They tried to raise the funds to purchase it but were unable to come up with enough money."

"The buyer was a CEO of a privately held holding company," Peter said. He pointed to Neal's drawing of Raphael's _Head of a Muse_ which was mounted on his bulletin board. "You're an expert on Raphael. Enlighten me on his drawings."

"He's regarded as one of the finest draftsmen of all time. That particular drawing was executed in black chalk and is considered to be one of his last great masterpieces. Raphael had prepared it as a sketch for _Transfiguration_ , a painting which is in the Vatican. The drawing is quite small which makes it easily hidden and transportable."

"Who's going to handle the investigation?" Travis asked.

"D.C. Art Crimes," Peter said. "Kramer's already en route to Boston. The Boston bureau chief called me to inform the Interpol task force about it. The drawing could already be out of the country." He turned to Neal. "What do you think? A coincidence that two such high-profile Raphaels were stolen in one year?"

Neal shrugged. "Raphael's works are so valuable that they're high priority targets, but to have both seized in such a short length of time invites speculation."

"It makes me wonder if the same thief was involved," Peter added. "We suspect Hagen stole the Raphael painting. Boston's only a few hours away from New York."

Travis steepled his fingers in front of his lips as he considered. "Mozzie found out about Hagen from a smuggler. Was Hagen exploring ways to sneak the drawing out of the country?"

"Hagen's involvement raises the likelihood that Ydrus has a contract with a Raphael collector." Peter turned to face Neal. "Does the Met have any Raphaels?"

"A few—primarily altarpieces. There's a small wood panel called _The Agony in the Garden_ which is easily transportable. Another target is a lovely drawing of Lucretia."

Travis's eyes widened. "I'm glad the anti-malware program is already in place at the Met. My team installed it this morning."

Neal considered for a moment and the more he thought it over, the more he admired the brazenness of the act. "With the theft of such a high-value masterpiece like the drawing, Hagen would safely assume all the FBI resources would be thrown at its investigation. He must know that the Bureau has only one art crimes unit with limited resources. He steals the drawing, comes to New York and sets up shop where he can strike the Met while everyone's attention is on Boston. It's brilliant."

"A double play." Peter jotted down a note. "I'll call the Met Director. He needs to be alerted to the possibility of a strike against their Raphaels." He turned to Neal. "You look troubled. Got a question?"

Neal nodded. "How did the thief learn who'd bought the drawing? The sale had been extensively covered in the media outlets at the time, but I'd only seen rumors about the buyer. If we can answer that, we'll be a lot closer to tracking down the thief."

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

It didn't take long for Neal to obtain his answer. In the afternoon, Peter called him upstairs to his office.

"I just got off the phone with R.W. Bosch." When Peter mentioned the name of the Sterling-Bosch CEO, Neal knew what Peter was going to say, but he waited for the explanation. "Sterling-Bosch was the insurer of that drawing. Bosch now believes that Ydrus may have a second informant within its organization. The owner had been tight-lipped about his purchase with very few of his acquaintances knowing about it. Everyone who did will be investigated of course, but at this point another informant is a real possibility."

"A second mole? After the first mole was exposed, Sterling-Bosch supposedly put in additional security measures. Looks like they were pretty ineffective." Neal couldn't contain a snort. "They're making it too easy for thieves. No wonder Ydrus is thriving."

"It's too early to make that kind of assessment," Peter cautioned. "R.W. claims the company has a better tracking system in place now. If someone leaked information to Ydrus about the drawing, he may be easier to trace."

"Do you know if Sara is under suspicion once more?"

Peter shook his head. "She's in the clear. R.W. said she was unaware that Sterling-Bosch was the insurer of the drawing since her responsibilities don't include Boston." That was welcome news. Neal had no desire to repeat the awkwardness from last month. "I have more news on the Sara front. She's asked for a transfer away from London and has been re-assigned to New York. R.W. is making her the lead investigator on this case."

"Do you know if it's a permanent transfer?"

"No idea, but you're in contact with her. You should ask."

"I thought she was happy in London. Fiona talks with her more than I do. She may know why Sara wanted to relocate. Perhaps Bryan's being reassigned to New York and she wants to be with him?"

**Bryan McKenzie's townhouse. London. April 16, 2005. Saturday morning.**

Sara walked through Bryan's flat one final time. Her heels clicked loudly on the stone floor as she checked the living room for any personal items.

Bryan was due back from Vienna this afternoon. He'd asked her out to dinner and she'd use the occasion to tell him her decision. It shouldn't come as a surprise—she'd been sending him enough signals for the past two months. But Bryan stubbornly refused to acknowledge them. Sara blamed herself for not having cut off their relationship earlier. If he hadn't been traveling so much, she would have.

She glanced around his luxurious flat. She used to admire the sophisticated urbanity of the furnishings. Now she found them cold and distant. The flat hadn't changed. Bryan hadn't changed. She had.

She couldn't wait to kick off the dust of a failed romance and make a fresh start. Her work at Sterling-Bosch was going better than ever. The New York assignment was a godsend. Having to work in the same office with Bryan would have been an excruciating ordeal. Now she understood why workplace romances were frowned upon.

Sara ticked off the rooms she'd searched: bedroom—check, bathroom—check, kitchen—check. She smiled at the thought of checking the kitchen. As if she ever cooked. The study? They'd spent hours there working on cases. She'd lent him a guide on antique porcelain marks and he'd never returned it. Better to pick it up now and avoid the awkwardness of having to ask for it later.

She walked into his study. The guide was a slim volume and not easy to find in Bryan's bookcase. He had an extensive collection of books on antique furniture, paintings, classic cars, clocks, Japanese swords, old prints . . . Sara paused when she noticed a book on medicinal plants.

Bryan had probably bought it when they worked on that theft in Cambridge, her first case in the U.K. That funny chemistry professor. He'd seemed like someone out of _The Avengers_ —the stereotype of the British eccentric. Thieves had made off with a Constable painting he owned, but he was much more concerned about a few books they'd stolen, including an old German text on botany. The professor was frantic about notes he'd left in the book on how to make poison from belladonna. Really. He was too absurd. If anyone wanted to make poison, they'd simply use the internet, not a nineteenth century herbal guide.

She and Bryan had unearthed evidence to recover both the painting and his books. She remembered the feeling of exhilaration so well. At the time she'd thought it was because of Bryan. Looking back, it was the rush from solving a case, not because of Bryan, but that was when she was convincing herself she was falling in love with him.

And now? Tonight she'd turn down his proposal.

Sara resumed her search in the bookcase and found the porcelain guide. She hoped Bryan wouldn't bear any ill will toward her after tonight. He'd no doubt be happy to hear she was leaving town. A clean break would be best for both of them.

**Morningside Heights, New York. April 16, 2005. Saturday morning.**

Mozzie beamed in the bright sunshine as he exited the Aloha Emporium. Waffles with lilikoi butter and a generous helping of Ohia lehua blossom honey were the perfect way to start the day. He and Billy had strategized their marketing plans for the new commemorative wine. This blend might be their most lucrative yet. Business concluded, it was time for his morning constitutional.

Mozzie scoffed at those who sweated away in gyms instead of partaking in the simple pleasures afforded by a promenade on Manhattan's broad boulevards. You'd never catch him on a germ-ridden treadmill.

The day ahead was full of delights. Lunch with the suit and the space suit. Neal and Richard would probably be there too. Then the telescope workshop. All those young minds—fertile earth to plant his seeds of genius. One of the children reminded him of himself at that age. They needed custom T-shirts and hats, of course. He'd speak with Janet about it on Sunday.

Ah yes, Janet . . . His queen bee. His beloved.

It was unfortunate she needed to work tonight, but they'd make up for it the next day. They'd already made plans for an early morning bird walk in Central Park to search for spring warblers. They had tickets for a Sunday evening performance of a _Julius Caesar_ revival. Janet knew the costume designer and was eager to see how the costumes looked on stage. He was also curious but was much more interested in having a toga party with Janet afterward in her apartment.

Mozzie gazed around the street. What should his destination be? The Rose Garden at St. John the Divine Cathedral, perhaps. Yes, he could check on the roses to see if they'd started to bud out.

He'd take advantage of his stroll to decide what to do about Gordon Taylor. The job was enticing, but he'd miss the opening of Neal's art exhibition. He'd already seen all the art, of course, and Neal said he understood, but still . . . As Neal's personal advisor and guru, shouldn't he be there?

Mozzie stopped by the Britannia building on West 110th Street for a moment as he considered the ten thousand permutations that could happen from whatever decision he made. If he went to Paris he could pick up that dragonfly brooch he'd seen. It would make the perfect gift for Janet for the six-month anniversary of the day they met. That had been the night of El's debut performance with her community theater group. Janet was now starring in Mozzie's own production. Two lovers intertwined . . . Their destinies must have been written in the stars.

_Buzz_

"Not now, little friend." Mozzie waved his hand in front of his face. "I already know you need to be protected. Go inform someone else. Shoo."

The bee apparently didn't realize that Mozzie was the protector of all things honey and bee-related. He could still hear it.

_Buzz_

Where was it? Wait . . . Was it trying to give him a message? Was this one of the bees that had been possessed by extraterrestrials?

"Come back, little bee! What are you trying to tell me?" Confound it. Had he missed his chance for first contact? He peered around anxiously to find the bee.

_Buzz_

Mozzie looked up. Was that it up there? Hold on. Forget the bee. Is that . . . could it be? His mouth dropped open as he fixed his eyes on the sculpture. The bee could land inside his mouth and he wouldn't care. Yes, he was right!

His agile brain registered footsteps behind him. The passersby would simply have to walk around him. He was on the cusp of a major discovery.

"Hey! What's going on?" Mozzie struggled to remove the bag that had been slipped over his head. "Help!" he yelled. "Unhand me!"

 A sharp prick on his neck. What was that? A needle?

His heart sank to his feet. Had it been sterilized? Germs! He swayed in horror. Countless germs assaulting his body . . . and then . . . time ran more slowly . . . He was drifting  . . . Must . . .

 

* * *

 **_Notes_** _: Thanks for reading! Please join me next week for Chapter 2: Lost when Neal will need to deal with crises on multiple fronts. I plan to post weekly on Wednesday._

_Peter demonstrates his Star Trek chops when he references the odds for success over lunch. He's quoting statistics used by Spock in the Star Trek Season 1 episode "Errand of Mercy." Raphael's Head of a Young Apostle, formerly part of the Chatsworth Collection in the UK, sold at auction in 2012 for over 45 million dollars to an anonymous buyer._

_This story is part of the Caffrey Conversation AU, created by Penna Nomen, and I'm thrilled that Penna is acting as beta editor and head muse for Raphael's Dragon. If you'd like to see photos of the cast members and other visuals, visit the Raphael's Dragon board  on our Caffrey Conversation Pinterest site at_ [ _www.pinterest.com/caffreycon_ ](http://www.pinterest.com/caffreycon) _where both Penna and I pin illustrations for our stories. I'll update the board with additional pins when I post a new chapter._

 _Penna and I share a blog, called Penna Nomen & Silbrith Conversation at _[_www.pennasilbrithconversation.blogspot.com_](http://www.pennasilbrithconversation.blogspot.com) _where we post about our stories and adventures in writing. This week I wrote about the mystery surrounding the Braque painting and the secrets Neal keeps. Penna's most recent post is entitled: "James Bennett: Can Neal's father be redeemed? Should he?"  
_

**_Background on the Caffrey Conversation AU for new readers_ ** _: Our 'verse differs from canon in that Neal was never sent to prison and the characters are several years younger. The personalities of canon characters (Elizabeth, Mozzie, Diana, Jones, Hughes, June, and Sara) are the same. In canon, Neal's only relatives to be mentioned are his father and mother. In ours, his mother Meredith has a twin sister named Noelle who is a psychologist. Noelle married Peter's older brother Joe, an architect during the Christmas holidays. Henry Winslow is Noelle's son and nearly three years older than Neal. He works at a private investigation and security company named Winston-Winslow (usually referred to as Win-Win). Neal has one other cousin, Angela, who is the daughter of Noelle's deceased brother. Angela entered a PhD program in Ethnomusicology at Columbia University in January of this year. Working with the White Collar team are two additional non-canon characters: Travis Miller, a technical expert, and Tricia Wiese, a profiler. Neal's friends at Columbia include fellow grad students Richard and Aidan. You can find the entire cast on our Pinterest site._

 _Disclaimers:_ _White Collar and its characters are not mine._ _Any references to real institutions, people, and locations are not necessarily true or accurate._


	2. Lost

**Watson Hall, Columbia University. April 16, 2005. Saturday morning.**

On Saturday morning, Neal arrived at Watson Hall on the Columbia campus to find Richard already at work in the adjoining studio. And not just Richard. Practically every other studio was occupied as well. The end-of-year exhibition was less than two weeks away. The final panicked countdown had begun.

Neal had been working toward the exhibition for the entire year. His art advisor, Professor Myra Stockman, had recommended the students make the works personal expressions. As Neal surveyed them, he wondered if he'd gone too far.

_Exposed_ had been started the night Klaus fell to his death at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Chiseled surfaces in slate and crimson. Peter said it looked like he'd used a shovel for a paintbrush. Now, as he studied it, Neal saw more of Braque's influence in the work than he'd initially appreciated. It made him realize how much Klaus had exposed him to, both good and bad. He hadn't touched the work in a month. It was ready.

His two portrait pieces, _Rock_ and _Shapeshifter,_ were also finished. _Spheres_ was an abstract of the Rose Space Center at the Museum of Natural History, where they'd found the Galileo manuscript forgery. He'd gotten the idea for _Sandpipers_ when he and Peter went to Jones Beach on the trail of Azathoth. That was the day they'd been kidnapped. It seemed fitting that now he'd added to his exhibition _Emergence_ , a seascape based on the psychedelic light and sound show Azathoth had displayed on their cell wall. _The River_ he'd painted while wearing the anklet and _Bicycles_ the night his con to trap the real thief had succeeded. Neal lined up the paintings to look at them. _Spheres_ still needed a little work but he was rapidly getting to the point he better lock them up. Any more tweaking and he'd risk ruining them.

By the time Richard dropped in, Neal had finished _Spheres_ and was cleaning his brushes.

"I wish I were as far along," he commented, scrutinizing Neal's paintings. "Are you declaring it a wrap?"

Neal nodded. "How about your pieces?"

"My galactic zoo?" Richard had sculpted two alien creatures for a competition at the sci-fi convention held six weeks ago. His entries not only won the top prize but earned him an internship at Scima Gameworks, a video game developer in SoHo. "I have one left to do. It's going to be a creature emerging from one of the kinetic abstract mobiles that I spent the entire first term on. Stockman wants to see our journey over the past year, and that's me. I started out in metal abstracts and took a left turn into organic life forms."

The Flying Saucer Pizza Company where they were meeting for lunch was two blocks from their studios. On the way over, Neal asked Richard about his internship.

"I'm glad I was able to able to talk my company into letting me have a leave of absence. It's the only way I could manage it since the internship at Scima is a full-time position. I'll have six months to prove myself."

"Any idea of what your first assignment will be?"

"They haven't told me yet but I'll find out next week when they place me on a team. The first two weeks have been an introduction to various aspects of game development."

"Henry told me his top choice for an office space is near Scima."

Richard nodded. "I know the place he's thinking about. It's off Lafayette Street below Washington Square. The building is one of the old cast-iron historic structures. The inside was gutted a few years ago and is high-tech contemporary. Exposed beams. It has good bones, plus it's close to the loft he was looking at. Did he decide to buy it?"

"He closed on it last week and has already hired Eric Vasquez to be the architect. He'll move in when he returns from Paris next week."

Richard stared at him incredulously. "But the loft is a disaster. He took Travis and me to see it. I agree it has potential, but the key word is _potential_ , as in far off in the future after a ton of renovation. I'm not even sure the plumbing works."

Neal grinned. "Hopefully he's found out. He's got a bed, a couple of chairs, and not much else. But there's hope. He's scheduled a meeting with Eric as soon as he returns to discuss plans."

When they arrived at the Flying Saucer, they found Peter and Travis already in command of a booth. Saturday lunch here became a tradition when Peter and Travis started volunteering at the university's telescope workshop.

"Is Mozzie joining us?" Peter asked.

"When I spoke with him yesterday, he wasn't sure," Neal said. "He was working on a new blend of honey wine for graduation and may be running tests with Billy. They believe with all the relatives descending on campus in a few weeks, they'll have access to a new wave of customers."

"He was using me a soundboard for names," Richard added. "So far Blue Label is the leading contender. The wine will be a commemorative edition for the graduates of 2005."

Travis smiled as he picked up the menu. "The Ferengi side of Mozzie must be counting up the profits already."

"Naturally," Neal agreed. "For the label, I included one of Columbia's buildings. I picked Watson Hall for this first year."

Peter raised a brow. "First?"

"Mozzie's dreaming big, and Columbia has a lot of buildings."

Richard looked over at the front door. "Still no Mozzie. You don't think he was attacked by alien slime, do you?"

"Is Mozzie still claiming that the tunnel slime he found is residue from an extraterrestrial invasion?" Peter asked.

Neal nodded. "He's a believer. A couple of evenings ago he showed me new samples from a tunnel under the quad. He's convinced that it was left by space aliens who are now hiding within bees."

Peter turned to Travis. "How's your SETI group taking his revelations?"

"It's become a sensitive topic," he acknowledged with a wince. "Mozzie has managed to persuade a couple of our members of the validity of his claim. He can be a persuasive speaker. We plan to spin off a sub-group with the recommendation they work on their slime research separately until they're ready for their grand reveal."

"You should call them the Slimebusters," Richard said with a grin. "They'll be your most popular group."

Neal wasn't surprised at Mozzie's absence. In the past, he often disappeared for days, sometimes weeks, at a time. What was unusual was the number of roots he was acquiring in New York. Mozzie used to harp on the desirability of never staying too long in one place. Now, with a girlfriend, a thriving honey business, his own bunker, and alien slime to investigate, it was no wonder he found New York a hard mistress to leave.

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Neal slept in on Sunday. He couldn't remember when he'd last had a day with so few commitments. It was a good feeling. In the afternoon he'd meet Aidan and Richard for fencing practice. The final meet of the season was scheduled for the following weekend. No band session this evening. With Fiona gone and finals looming on the horizon, everyone was taking a break.

Neal poured a mug of coffee, gathered up _The New York Times_ , and walked onto the terrace. New York on a Sunday morning had a relaxed, laid back feel which suited his mood. Traffic was at a minimum. No noisy trucks clanking down the street, making deliveries.

He opened up the paper to the arts section which had a review of the Goya exhibition at the Met. The exhibition contrasted Goya's court paintings with his darker late works of demons and witches—a world of insanity some called it. Goya himself wrote little about what inspired such black visions. Some considered them a metaphor of his times. For others, they were a reflection of the physical and mental issues he was plagued with.

Hagen had forged one of Goya's witch paintings, _Witches' Sabbath_. Did Goya's dark side appeal to him? The imagery in certain of his paintings was depraved enough to rival Lovecraft.

Neal shook off thoughts of Goya and went into the kitchen to fetch an almond croissant he'd purchased on the way home last night. It was hard to be depressed when eating almond croissants.

His cell phone rang while he was in the kitchen. It was Mozzie's girlfriend Janet. She was in Central Park waiting for Mozzie who hadn't shown up.

"He was supposed to meet me at Cherry Hill at eight o'clock," she said plaintively. "We'd planned to take a bird walk. I've called several times but only get his voicemail."

Mozzie was far too smitten with Janet to stand her up deliberately, but he could have been wrapped up in his slime research and overslept. It was only ten o'clock, which was often the time Neal's nocturnal friend went to bed. Neal promised to check on him and get back to her.

After he hung up, Neal attempted to call Mozzie on all the different phone numbers he had for him, but none answered. He also left a text message, using the Columbia code Mozzie had devised. Neal categorized this as a _Smew_ alert—the highest level—which should provide an immediate response if Mozzie were capable of responding.

Most likely Mozzie was asleep in the bunker. The trouble was Mozzie was subject to sudden flights of fancy where he'd take off on an impulse and only remember days later he should have said something. It was spring. He could have had another Thoreau moment and wandered off somewhere in the countryside. But without Janet? That didn't make sense. Surely he would have invited her along.

When Neal arrived at the Aloha Emporium, the cafe was crowded with brunch customers. He found Billy in the kitchen, making waffles. Billy had seen Mozzie on Saturday morning and not since. Neal jogged down the back staircase to the bunker—he'd never entered the hideout when Mozzie wasn't there. Would his paranoid friend have set any booby traps? Luckily the code hadn't changed and Neal didn't have to break in. Unluckily the bunker was without its occupant.

Neal sat down at the desk and scanned through the papers lying on its surface. An open notepad was filled with cryptic bits of phrases. They appeared to be related to the coded message from Azathoth. Would Azathoth have kidnapped Mozzie? Up to now he hadn't been a target, but that could have changed. Many notes were concerned with tunnel slime and his SETI research. Perhaps Travis could figure them out. The sheets on top appeared to be recipes with lists of ingredients.

Troubled at the implications, Neal strode to the kitchenette. Several bottles, labeled with numbers, were on the counter and even more were in the cabinet above. Were these essences for his honey wine blends or drugs? Mozzie occasionally dabbled in experiments with drugs to promote mental acuity, as he described it. Neal had warned him on numerous occasions to be careful. Did Mozzie inadvertently take something which caused hallucinations or amnesia?

What if he'd been investigating slime in the tunnels? He could have had an accident or even a heart attack. Neal and Mozzie had discovered some of the lost tunnels—tunnels that were undocumented and which possibly no one else knew about. Then there were the forbidden tunnels that they had explored extensively. If Mozzie had slipped and fallen in one of those, no one would discover him.

Neal had brought along his spelunking gear in anticipation of entering the tunnels. He donned his headlamp and slipped on his overalls. After a few twirls of the lock hidden in the bookcase, he swung the bookcase open to reveal the entrance to the tunnel extension. Neal switched on his headlamp, closed the door behind him, and entered the blackness of the tunnels.

Last fall when he'd first explored the university's underground network, Neal had spent uncounted hours researching every cranny. He doubted anyone else had as much knowledge about them—except Mozzie. Had it been a mistake to reveal the tunnel secrets to him? Was Mozz now lying unconscious in a pool of stagnant water in one of the lost branches? As Neal began his search, that image continued to haunt him.

But after hours of fruitless exploration, he began to have doubts. He'd combed the entire southern half of the network without a single lead. Neal glanced at his watch. He was due to meet Richard and Aidan for fencing practice. No cell phone signal in the tunnels, but he could stop at the gym to check with them. Perhaps they'd seen Mozzie.

Neal took a side tunnel to the restricted entrance in the power room below Blue Gym. Before exiting, he removed his overalls and placed his gear in his backpack. He slipped through the power room and stopped off in a washroom to wash off the smudges on his face before heading for the fencing facility in the lower level. On the way he made another round of calls to Mozzie's cell phones, all with the same results.

He found Aidan and Richard suiting up in the locker room. "Glad to see you, d'Artagnan," Aidan said. "I was starting to wonder if you'd be a no-show."

"No fencing practice for me today, sorry. I've been searching the tunnels for Mozzie. He was scheduled to meet Janet this morning but didn't make it. No one's seen him since yesterday morning and he's not answering any of his phones."

Richard unzipped his fencing jacket. "We can practice another time. You can't search the entire grid by yourself. Let us help."

"Mozzie's a brother," Aidan added. "He'll always be Athos to us. Where have you looked?"

Neal was grateful for the offer. He'd first introduced them to Mozzie in the fall when Fowler attempted to frame Neal for the theft of Marie Antoinette's diamond earrings. They'd called themselves the Musketeers back then and Mozzie used the alias of Athos. It was time for the Musketeers to heed the call once more.

They stopped off at Richard's studio where he kept extra spelunking supplies. Next to Neal and Mozzie, Richard was the most familiar with the forbidden routes.

"Are you going to contact the FBI or police?" Aidan asked. "Isn't there something about a person needing to be missing for three days?"

"That's a myth," Neal said, "but there are other complications." He hesitated over how much to reveal. They were aware Mozzie engaged in less-than-legal activities, but everyone had been careful to avoid the topic. "Mozzie would never forgive me if I filled out a missing persons report. That would enter him into the system, and he prizes his anonymity almost more than anything."

"That explains all the aliases, but we can't simply focus on the tunnels," Richard said, handing Aidan a headlamp. "A car could have struck him. He could have had a heart attack while out walking."

Richard echoed Neal's own fears. "Is Travis working at the Bureau today?"

Richard nodded. "He's scheduled to work till around eight this evening on the museum feeds, but as you know, there's a lot of dead time when you're sitting around while the program churns through the data. He could make some calls."

Travis would understand Mozzie's desire for anonymity and protect it. When Neal called him, Travis offered to check the hospital and police reports for anyone matching Mozzie's description.

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Late afternoon, after a search of the entire grid produced no sign of Mozzie, Neal called off the operation. The next target area he'd have to tackle on his own.

In addition to his bunker, Mozzie had a number of safe houses throughout the city. Neal knew most of them but not all. He started in Lower Manhattan—a studio apartment over Sal's Billiards in the Bowery. It was a favorite refuge and home to Mozzie's pet rat Percy. Neal had visited the place on more than one occasion to keep his billiards skills sharp. Sal was a close friend of Mozzie's and tended Percy for him.

Sal was a second generation Italian, a swarthy man with black slicked-back hair and dark shrewd eyes. Neal found him in the back office. Sal hadn't seen Mozzie for a week. He thought Percy looked lonely so had brought his cage down to his office. Neal checked the apartment, which had been furnished with items from a thrift store down the street. Mozzie was meticulous in his housekeeping. No scraps of paper in the wastebasket to indicate he'd been there recently. This was one safe house which could be scratched off. Neal sprawled in an old plaid recliner and gloomily contemplated his next stop—a studio on Staten Island—when Travis called him on his cell.

"Tell me you found him!" Neal's heart was performing somersaults. Did he really want Travis to have news? If he did, it wouldn't be good.

"Yes and no," Travis said. "For Mozzie, nothing's come in. No hospital reports of John Doe cases matching his description. But here's something you'll like. There's news on the Dutchman. Curtis Hagen was recorded visiting the Goya exhibition at the Met yesterday afternoon."

Neal broke into a grin at his first good news of the day. "I'm not far from the Bureau. I'll be right in."

When he arrived, the tech boys in the lab were still high-fiving each other.

"We're running the latest footage from the Met through the program now," Travis said. "We'll continue to monitor the other museums, but as of now the Met will be our main target. I'm setting up a surveillance schedule for the entrance."

"You can sign me for the daytime shifts. It will give me something to do."

Travis shot him a sharp look. "If it were a kidnapping, someone probably would have heard something."

Neal nodded. "That's what I believe too. It's not Azathoth's style. He likes to taunt us about his exploits."

"Have you told Peter?"

"Not yet." Neal was becoming increasingly convinced that Mozzie had taken some mind-altering drug in one of his bizarre experiments. Mozzie's drug use, to the best of his knowledge, had always been in the cause of "scientific experimentation," but would Travis and Peter view it that way? The most likely scenario was that Mozzie was currently sleeping off the side effects in one of his safe houses. Neal still had several to check, but if Mozzie had chosen one he didn't know about, Neal would have to wait for the drug to wear off and Mozzie to resurface.

Before he left to continue the search, Neal reviewed the footage with Travis. Hagen had been recorded at the admissions window in the Great Hall and at the gallery containing the Goya exhibit. The witch paintings had been aligned on one wall with the surveillance camera capturing the entire series of six paintings. Hagen stopped in front of several of them but the one he spent the most time on was a painting called _Witches Flight_. Did Hagen have a wealthy buyer with a fascination for the occult? It was a puzzle Neal longed to solve, but the mystery swirling around Mozzie would have to take precedence.

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Monday morning dawned with Mozzie still missing.

Neal had checked out the remaining safe houses he knew about—the dojo in Queens, the studio in Staten Island, even the maintenance shed on top of the apartment building on Roosevelt Island, but none of them had any sign of recent occupancy. He'd reached out to Mozzie's contacts. Some he could call, but for many others he had to visit personally. No one had seen him. The Dutchman had just emerged from the fog. Had Mozzie taken his place and sailed back into the mist? 

Travis had assigned Neal to the early shift of surveillance duty on Monday morning. He hoped time away from the search would perhaps provide fresh insights. The van, disguised as a Con Edison utility truck, was parked outside the front entrance to the Met. So far the only sighting of Curtis Hagen had been the Met visit on Sunday.

Diana was his van buddy for the shift. Neal didn't plan to mention anything about Mozzie's disappearance to her. She'd developed a fragile truce with Mozz which could be easily shattered if she thought he'd run off to do a job or was sleeping off an overdose of drugs somewhere.

Besides, they had another mystery to work on while keeping their eyes glued to the monitors—the coded message from Azathoth which Mozzie had deciphered.

"The meaning of the first part is obvious," Diana said. "Of course, I love treasure hunts. Who doesn't? But the second half— _Find yourself in the sky over Britain_ — that's downright mean. How am I supposed to figure that out? How many thousands of square miles does England have?"

"And whatever the number is doesn't touch the magnitude of the problem. We don't know how high in the sky over Britain we need to look. Calculating the different numbers would result in something approaching infinity."

"There, you see my point," she said with a sigh. "It's impossible. He's simply being a tease."

Neal shook his head. "I don't think so. With the puzzle he'd built around the Galileo manuscript, there was a genuine prize at the end—the manuscript. What we need is something to narrow the search parameters. He hasn't sent you any more clues?"

"Not yet. I'll post another chapter later this week and plan to reference the comment with something about skies in my notes."

"I hope you're not sending me back to Leng. Was it absolutely necessary for you to subject my namesake to that ghastly frozen plateau in your last story?"

"I thought you'd like that part," she protested with a grin. "You were the one who provided the source material when you compared your trek down Lynx Mountain to Lovecraft's Plateau of Leng."

"That was a joke! I didn't think you'd actually torture Neal Carter with it. He's just a kid."

"You're not that much older and look at the trouble you get into. Besides, I found your account much too vivid not to steal parts of it." She slanted a glance at him from her station. "So, aside from criticizing my choice of setting, any other comments?"

He made a theatrical show of pondering her question for several minutes. "Hmm."

"Oh, come on. Surely there was something you liked."

"Referring to Peter as a panda was a nice touch. I've called him a polar bear, but that's just as appropriate."

"I was proud of that one too," she confided. "Black and white like our by-the-book boss and with a marshmallow center. But don't tell him I said so, or I'll exact my revenge on your character."

"I thought you already had." Neal ducked the eraser missile she hurled at him and flung it back at her. "Speaking of which, did Neal Carter actually travel to Leng or was that a dream? And was that really a dragon he saw flying around the church? Any chance it's the same dragon that Raphael's St. George fought?"

"Enough with your questions! You'll have to wait along with the readers to find out."

"Now I understand your evil plan. Azathoth won't want to kill us so he can read the end of the story."

She smiled wickedly. "Now you're catching on."

The hours passed. After Diana failed to be persuaded by a brilliantly constructed argument that Neal Carter would make a great dragon slayer, Neal reverted to an internal debate over whether he should tell Peter about Mozzie. There wasn't much if anything Peter could do, but there was a remote possibility that Azathoth was behind the disappearance. That seemed less and less likely though as no ransom demand or any other message had been received.

"You're looking a little green around the gills," Diana commented, after Neal had spent a half-hour contemplating the possibility Mozzie had ingested tunnel slime in order to become one with the extraterrestrials he was convinced had made it. "It's your turn to escape. It's almost lunchtime. Take a break and bring me back something to eat."

Neal sprang to his feet in an instant. "You're a goddess, thank you!" he called out as he sprinted for the door. "I know a fusion cafe just down the street which you'll love."

Exiting the van, he paused to take a deep breath of fresh air. Perhaps Japanese. Nothing too spicy and no garlic—not in those closed quarters. Diana liked cupcakes. He'd buy her a special one to thank her for letting him out of prison. Neal picked up the cupcakes—a caramel macchiato for her and a mimosa for himself—then headed for the Hiroki Fusion Cafe.

When his phone rang, for one heart-stopping second he thought it could be Mozzie, but he didn't complain when he heard Henry's voice.

"Paris says bonjour."

"Your accent's improving, _Henri_. How's the work going? Is the software performing up to your specifications?"

"It is. It's worked so well at De Gaulle International that the French are negotiating to implement it at all their international airports."

The facial-recognition software wasn't the only reason Henry was in Paris. He was also spearheading the search for Fowler as part of the partnership between the FBI and Henry's company to bring Adler to justice. Win-Win had secured several clients who had been bilked out of millions of dollars from Adler's Ponzi scheme. It was this same scheme that had caused Neal to lose most of the money he'd acquired from his years of working with Klaus. Adler was assumed to still be hiding in Argentina, but Fowler had been recently spotted in Paris.

"That's great. Wait till they have their first match, and all of Europe will be signing up."

"It's already happened." Neal could hear the grin in Henry's voice. "And it's a big one—Fowler."

Neal stopped short at the news—not a good idea on a congested Manhattan street as he was immediately jostled by someone crashing into his back.

"Watch it, numbskull!" the guy complained, giving him a dirty look as he passed him.

Henry laughed. "I heard that. You want to get out of the way? Where are you anyway?"

"Taking a break from van duty. Just keep talking."

"Fowler was discovered to have left Paris on the tenth of April under the name of Jack Pritchard."

"Do you know the destination?"

"Munich, Germany. Our partner agents had been combing hotels in Paris, trying to find a location for him. They eventually located a hotel where he'd been registered. One of the agents has contacts to rival Mozzie's. He discovered through a fence that Fowler was trying to locate a painting by Georges Braque. It's called _Violin and Candlestick_."

Henry was continuing to talk but Neal listened with half an ear. So Adler was the buyer, after all.

"You still there?"

"Yeah. I'm trying to figure out why Adler would be interested in the painting."

"That's what I planned to ask you. Why was Fowler going around saying he'd buy it for ten times over what I was told the going rate would be? Let me know if you find out anything."

Henry stayed on the phone a few minutes longer, saying he'd also call Peter with the news. He'd fly back to New York on Wednesday.

As Neal stood in the line at the cafe, he pondered Henry's revelation. The mysteries in his life were multiplying like rabbits. Fowler must be acting for Adler. For him to offer much more than the market value for the painting implied only one thing. More than ever Neal longed for Mozzie.

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

"What is it about that Braque painting that makes it so fascinating?" Peter asked. "I assume that's why you've been staring at my desk for the past few minutes."

As soon as Neal returned from his surveillance shift, Peter called him into his office. Henry had told Peter he'd already spoken with Neal. Peter was counting on his resident art expert to shed light on why Fowler was interested in a painting by a Cubist master. But from the way Neal was acting, enlightenment wouldn't be forthcoming.

"Your desk is showing its age. Isn't it time for a new one? Perhaps in oak or walnut. Italian contemporary would make a bold statement."

"Enough with the stonewalling. What aren't you telling me?" Didn't Neal realize by now that every time he deflected, Peter's internal radar pinged he wasn't going to like the answer?

"Honestly, I don't know why Adler would be interested in it, and that bothers me." Neal looked genuinely troubled. "The painting is one of Braque's early works. What Fowler's offering is far more than the black market rate."

"You're thinking about a connection to Nazi plunder, aren't you?"

Neal shrugged with a smile. "You caught me. With anything concerning Adler, Hitler clones start dancing in my head."

Peter considered for a moment. "Since he's inquiring about it, that means he doesn't believe it's part of a looted cache of art, but it may have some other connection. Research the painting's history and get back to me." Neal nodded but showed no inclination to leave. "Is there something else besides Nazis doing a polka in your head?"

His expression became serious as he nodded. "Mozzie's missing. He was supposed to meet Janet on Sunday morning but never appeared. I spent all day looking for him—checked every place I can think of." As he described his search, Neal looked increasingly tense.

For Peter it had the opposite effect. Not that he wanted anything to have happened to Mozzie, but for a moment he'd wondered if Neal had any history with the Braque. Now that he knew his distraction was because of Mozzie he could breathe easier. "Mozzie's disappeared before, right?"

"Not frequently, but it's happened in the past. Still, I find it hard to believe he would stand Janet up."

"I don't suppose you've listed him as a missing person?"

Neal sighed. "I can't. You know that. Mozzie would never forgive me."

"I assume you've checked hospitals  . . ."

Neal saved him from having to say it. "Morgues, yeah, all the usual places."

"You haven't mentioned Azathoth, but I know you're thinking it."

Neal nodded. "Kidnapping seems unlikely. There's no ransom note or other message."

"I agree. It doesn't fit Azathoth's style. Do you know of anyone else who'd have Mozzie in his sights?"

"Mozzie's never mentioned any enemies to me. I don't know of any Kellers in his past, but he hasn't told me much about his life before I met him."

"I could alert the police about a person of interest. Do you have a photograph I could use?"

"No, I don't. Mozzie doesn't allow photos of himself to be taken and destroys any he finds. And you can't go to the police about this."

Neal wasn't making it easy on him. "I'd like to help, but you're really tying my hands in this."

"I know. I'm sorry. That's why I didn't call you yesterday. I knew you'd be frustrated and I'd hoped he'd show up on his own. I shouldn't have brought it up. You have enough on your plate already."

"No, you did the right thing. I'd say take some time off to look for him, but with Hagen . . ."

"Thanks, but I already covered every place I can think of." Neal stood up to leave.

"He'll show up, Neal. No doubt he'll invent some wildly implausible tale to explain his absence to hide the job he was on that I don't even want to think about."

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Peter's prediction didn't come true till Tuesday morning.

Neal was finishing the morning shift of van surveillance with Travis when his cell phone rang. "Mozzie?" he asked, not daring to hope the voice matched the display.

"Neal, is that you?" Mozzie's voice had a dreamlike quality as if he were tripping.

"Yeah, it's me. Where are you? Are you okay?" Travis nudged Neal and he put his cell on speaker.

"I'm floating. Hiiii-gh in the sky . . . with the stars."

"Stars?" Neal repeated in bewilderment. It was bright sunshine outside. He glanced over at Travis who looked equally baffled.

"Mozzie, this is Travis. Which stars are you seeing?"

"Is that Space Suit?"

"Yeah, he's with me. Describe the sky to us," Neal pleaded.

"I don't see the Space Suit. Is he behind the horse?"

"Horse? Are you in the country?"

Mozzie snickered. "No, silly. Pegasus, the flying horse. I'm in space, remember? There aren't any real horses in space. Oooh  . . . Pretty . . ."

Neal groaned. He was definitely tripping. Travis was attempting to get a bead on his location but Mozzie was so doped up he could drop the phone or ring off at any moment. "Please, Mozz. Look around you. What do you see?"

"Of course! Aquarius." Mozzie started singing "Aquarius" from the musical _Hair_. Neal had never heard Mozzie sing before but he was surprisingly good. Had an interesting warble to his voice, if only it weren't so slurred.

"Are you on Broadway? Is that what you're trying to tell me?" but Mozzie hung up before answering.

Rubbing his forehead, Neal asked. "What do you think? He was seeing stars. Where is it dark? Europe?" Perhaps Mozzie was on a job with Gordon Taylor after all, and simply hadn't told him. If so, he'd been drinking far too much champagne.

Travis considered for a moment and shook his head. "I don't think Mozzie was seeing real stars. Aquarius and Pegasus aren't visible in the night sky in April."

"You think he was hallucinating?"

"Inconclusive, but when you mentioned being in the country, he giggled. It's logical to postulate an urban situation. We were getting a strong signal. I don't think he was calling from overseas."

"So he might have been looking at a painting of stars . . . Where could he see Pegasus and Aquarius? The planetarium?"

"That's one possibility although they're currently running a show about the Big Bang and wouldn't be featuring those constellations. Do you know of any paintings of constellations in a museum?"

Neal snapped his fingers. "Of course! Grand Central Station!"

Travis's face lit up. "That has to be it. The ceiling is painted with constellations, and now that the restoration work is completed, the effect is spectacular."

"Are Aquarius and Pegasus included in the stars?"

Travis was already researching it on his computer. He nodded. "The ceiling depicts the zodiac in October and includes them."

Neal stood up. "Is it okay if—"

Travis interrupted before he'd finished his question. "Go ahead. Diana and Jones will be coming in an hour to relieve me. Keep me informed."

Neal grabbed a taxi and ten minutes later was at Grand Central. The Beaux-Arts façade with its impressive sculptures shone in the morning sun like a vision of Xanadu. Mercury, the patron of thieves, was the central figure. Was his outstretched arm pointing the way to Mozzie?

Neal sprinted inside the Grand Concourse. It wouldn't be trivial locating him among the crowd of travelers milling about the vast space. Neal glanced up at the ceiling. Decades of tobacco smoke had been removed during the restoration work. The constellations of the zodiac stretched out in a scintillating band of gold against the cerulean blue sky. Mozzie said he looked up and saw Aquarius. Could it be that easy?

As Neal walked toward Aquarius he spotted Mozzie leaning against one of the columns and gazing up at the ceiling. Neal raced toward him, not knowing whether to shake or hug him. He wound up doing both.

Mozzie showed no surprise in seeing him. His eyes were unfocused, his glasses askew. He had several days of beard growth. His clothes were rumpled but not torn. No blood on them—a good sign. Neal checked the back of his head, while Mozzie patted Neal's arm in a random gesture. "You came to stargaze with me. How nice. They're particularly beautiful tonight."

Neal couldn't find any bumps or bruises. "Do you know what day it is?"

He turned to look at Neal with surprise. "What an absurd question. We're in the Age of Aquarius. That's all that matters," and he broke out once more in song.

Neal shushed the former-shadow-dweller-turned-exhibitionist and led him out the building.

Mozzie offered no resistance. "Where are we going? To look at more stars?"

He should see a doctor, but Neal knew once Mozzie was in his right mind, he'd never forgive him for that. "A safe place so you can rest. Would you like to come to the loft or your bunker?"

He shook his head. "Janet. Take me to Janet's." He struggled to free himself from Neal's arm. "I have to see Janet now!"

"Janet's it is," Neal said soothingly. "I'll give her a call in the taxi." Janet had an apartment in Chelsea, not far from the costume warehouse where she worked. Neal had been there once before. Luckily she was in her office when he called. She reacted ecstatically to the news, saying she'd meet them there.

Janet's two-floor apartment reflected her creative personality. It was in a former warehouse that had been converted into lofts. The exposed brick walls were covered with hand-painted silk wall hangings. Fanciful flower lamps in bright colors hung from the tall ceiling. The furniture was comfortable leather. No artificial fabrics for Janet. A narrow cast iron spiral staircase led up to her bedroom.

Mozzie refused to lie down and took immediate possession of the leather couch. Janet prepared him a glass of Moroccan mint tea with a generous dollop of honey which he drank greedily. During the taxi ride over he'd become much more lucid but hadn't divulged anything about what happened to him.

"You can't remember anything?" Janet asked as she spread a throw decorated with dragonflies over him.

He shook his head despondently. "I remember waking up on Saturday, thinking it was a beautiful morning. I went out to take a stroll and . . ." His voice trailed off. He tapped a few times on his forehead. "There's nothing else there. The next thing I remember I was in a cab with Neal."

"You don't remember calling me?" Neal asked. "Singing 'Aquarius'? How you arrived at Grand Central Station?" At Mozzie's headshake, Neal slouched deeper into his chair.

"Have some wine," Janet said, handing him a hand-painted wine glass. "We need something stronger than tea." Janet must have painted the glass. It couldn't be easy to find yellow-faced bee wine glasses.

Mozzie looked longingly at their wine. "Can't I have some too?"

"No!" Neal said, wanting to shake him again. "Do you have any idea how worried we've been about you?"

Grumbling, he put down his tea and twisted the throw in his hands. "I've made a careful analysis of what you've told me and there can be only one answer." He shifted his eyes back and forth between the two of them. "Brace yourselves. I don't want to alarm you unduly, but you should be prepared. They may come back."

"They?" Neal asked cautiously. "Who are you referring to?"

Mozzie leaned forward. "The aliens," he whispered. "They must have heard about my slime research and wanted to know how much I knew. They took me to their spaceship and probed my mind with their alien devices." An expression of beatific joy suffused his face. "I was abducted by extraterrestrials!"

 

* * *

**_Notes_ ** _: Mozzie's abduction theory may not prove to be correct but I don't want to burst his balloon too quickly. He'll discover what really happened in a couple of chapters. In next week's chapter, He Sails No More, the spotlight is on Hagen. Peter has a conversation with Kramer, Henry meets with the team, and, oh yes, we get a glimpse of what Bryan's up to._

_The Galileo manuscript puzzle Neal refers to is in The Woman in Blue. The house Azathoth held Neal and Peter captive in was designed as an elaborate puzzle. (Chapters 21 and 22). Many of Neal's paintings are based on incidents from that story. Fowler's attempt to frame Neal is the subject of The Queen's Jewels._

_I wrote about Hagen for our blog. The post is called "The Dutchman and Goya: A Moment of Serendipity." And there's exciting news from the writers' cave. Penna has begun to write her novel, nicknamed Prime. She's shared her thoughts on starting a new work in her post "The fear of starting something new," and has also updated the Prime page on the blog._

_Many thanks to Penna for her help with this chapter and to you for reading and your comments!_

**_Blog_ ** _: Penna Nomen & Silbrith Conversation: _ [ _www.pennasilbrithconversation.blogspot.com_ ](http://www.pennasilbrithconversation.blogspot.com) _  
_ **_Chapter Visuals and Music_ ** _: The Raphael's Dragon board on the Caffrey Conversation Pinterest website:_ [ _www.pinterest.com/caffreycon_ ](http://www.pinterest.com/caffreycon)


	3. He Sails No More

**Federal Building. April 19, 2005. Tuesday afternoon.**

Peter hung up the phone with a chuckle. Mozzie—abducted by aliens. Of course. Why hadn't they realized that earlier?

Now Neal could stop worrying. It was unfortunate Mozzie refused to see a doctor. In Peter's view, Janet's holistic medicine practitioner didn't count. But apparently there was nothing wrong with him aside from the amnesia. If only he'd forgotten how to be a con man, Peter's life would be so much simpler.

Peter was inclined to agree with Neal. Mozzie's amnesia was most likely caused by his lamentable habit of experimenting with drugs. Since he refused to have his blood analyzed, they'd likely never know for sure. Neal was clearly embarrassed at talking about Mozzie's drug use, and Peter didn't make an issue out of it when Neal excused it as being only for scientific research. Peter knew better. Mozzie was planning some con and got burnt. Hopefully it would teach him a lesson.

Peter was pleased when Neal asked for permission to stay and help Janet with Mozzie. Sara was due to arrive and it was just as well that Neal wasn't around for their meeting. Since Sara was Sterling-Bosch's lead investigator on the Raphael drawing case, it came as no surprise when she called Peter. But why did she want to speak with him alone, even specifically requesting that Neal not be included?

That was a puzzle he still hadn't solved when he greeted her at the elevator bank. Sara appeared unusually serious. There was none of the lighthearted banter he'd grown to expect from her. Peter assumed the cause was the theft of the drawing. Had someone within Sterling-Bosch been fingered?

When they entered his office, Peter gestured for her to take a seat and closed the door behind her. "Bosch mentioned you'd asked for a new assignment, and you've got a big one now. As I explained on the phone, I don't know how helpful I can be. D.C. Art Crimes is in charge of the case."

She pulled her chair close to his desk. "Yes, I'm going up to Boston later today where I'll meet their team. The reason I asked to speak with you was that I know you've been working on the case of _St. George and the Dragon,_ the Raphael painting that was stolen last summer. We're evaluating the two thefts to see if they're connected. Some feel that the same thief stole both."

"Same artist, both works stolen on the East Coast . . . it's a tempting theory." Peter stopped to consider. "One of the most obvious parallels is that Sterling-Bosch is the insurer of both works. I assume R.W. filled you in about his concerns of an Ydrus mole."

Sara nodded. "When the first one was uncovered, I was shocked. The likelihood that there's a second one is intolerable." She paused and took a breath. "Mr. Bosch told me I was under suspicion for a while too."

Peter nodded. "We're also concerned about an Ydrus informant working within the Bureau. It's something we all have to watch out for now."

"Rumors and speculation. It's a poisonous atmosphere." Sara looked uneasy and increasingly uncomfortable. "In my current role, I'm forced to ask some questions that may seem insensitive."

"Go ahead, Sara. What's on your mind?"

She hesitated. "God, this is awkward. The drawing was stolen on Wednesday afternoon, April 13. Was Neal working in the office that day?"

Peter frowned. "Is Neal under suspicion?"

Sara nodded unhappily. "In an investigation such as this we have a list of possible suspects we have to verify as part of the review process. Neal's name was flagged."

"Why?" Peter demanded.

"D.C. Art Crimes had alerted Sterling-Bosch at the beginning of the investigation into _St. George and the Dragon_ that Neal had been at the museum around the time of the robbery. He was included in the person of interest list we received from the FBI."

Peter sat back, huffing in frustration. "Neal provided information to help the FBI investigation. He's never been a suspect in the case. And you're telling me his name is flagged at Sterling-Bosch? That's outrageous." Peter felt his anger boiling to the surface and clamped down on it. Sara was simply being the messenger. This was a matter to bring up with his former mentor, Philip Kramer.

"I only found out about it when I reviewed the earlier Raphael case this week. Since the thief has never been caught, Neal's still on the list."

"Thank you—seriously—for bringing this to my attention. I'll speak with Art Crimes about the _misunderstanding_." He pulled up the timesheet database to check Neal's status. "For the record, Neal was at the office the entire day on April 13. According to the information I received, the theft took place sometime between ten o'clock in the morning and two o'clock in the afternoon, so you can safely cross him off your list."

Sara brushed her hair back. "Thank you." She hesitated. "I recently learned of Neal's history, or at least the information about him on the Interpol database."

"I feel confident it's not something that Neal told you about."

She shook her head.

"May I ask how you learned? Is that also in Sterling-Bosch's files?"

Sara flushed. "No, it's not. Bryan told me about it in February when I was appointed to be Weatherby's liaison. He told me he was concerned that if I associated with Neal, my career would be damaged."

Peter started to speak, but she stopped him. "I know you're aware that Bryan and I were in a relationship. When he brought it up, I thought he was motivated by jealousy. He claimed he'd researched Neal when he heard about the theft of the diamond earrings at Regnier's." She paused. "This isn't your concern, but you should know that Bryan and I have broken up. It wasn't about Neal. It's just . . . we're not as compatible as I thought we were."

How much of this had been Bryan seeking to eliminate a potential rival? The person of interest list had come from the FBI, not Bryan. Peter reminded himself Sara didn't have to confide in him. There was no point in venting at her. None of this was her fault. Her look of distress prompted him to say more that he would have normally. "I won't deny that Neal had a troubled past. There are extenuating circumstances that someday he may discuss with you, but that's his call. Since you're an investigator, you should know that Neal received immunity from prosecution in an arrangement to work with the FBI. Since I recruited him, his performance has been exemplary. Neal's turned his life around and I'm very proud of him for having done so."

Sara nodded. "When I heard that he was appointed to the Interpol art crimes task force, I figured it was something like that. I'd appreciate it if you don't tell Neal that I know about his background. I don't want him to think I was checking up on him."

Peter was glad Neal was away. He needed to decompress before contacting Kramer and he didn't want Neal around for what would be a difficult call to make.

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

"Petey, it's good to hear from you."

Peter cringed when he heard Kramer use that nickname. His former mentor had been calling him that ever since Peter had been his probie. He'd disliked it then and it rankled even more now.

Peter's initial reaction had been of disbelief when Sara told him Kramer had placed Neal on a person of interest list for the theft of _St. George and the Dragon_. But as he reviewed the sequence of events, it helped explain how Kramer could have justified it. Neal was in D.C. visiting his relatives when the painting was stolen. Peter was also in town on business and had been notified of the theft. At the time Kramer didn't make an issue of Neal having been seen in the gallery. Neal admitted to Peter he'd once considered stealing the painting, which was supposedly Kate's favorite, in an effort to impress her. Neal and Mozzie had drawn up preliminary plans and Mozzie had gone so far as to research the guards at the museum.

When he heard about the theft, Neal persuaded Mozzie to finger the guard who appeared most susceptible to bribery. Peter provided the information to Kramer and was surprised when Kramer, rather than thanking him, shut him out of the case. Was this the reason? Peter would soon find out.

"I had to notify Sterling-Bosch. Look at it from my perspective. A known art thief is seen in the museum the day a painting is stolen. I would be reprimanded for incompetence if I hadn't added Neal to the list."

"But Neal's reformed. He's been a tremendous asset to the Bureau."

"I don't deny his achievements, but you can't lose sight of who he is." Phil was playing it cool, keeping his tone reasonable, as if he were trying to explain the way of the world to an unruly child.

Peter suppressed his own sputtering emotions to react in kind. "Once a con, always a con—is that what you believe?"

He could hear his sigh on the phone. "You must know the recidivism rate as well as I. You remember that C.I. who worked for me when you were still my probie? The one who helped out with my son's little league team? He's back in prison now. The old life was a siren call he couldn't deny. You need to accept that sooner or later the same thing will most likely happen to Neal."

"That's not going to happen."

"How can you be so sure?" Kramer paused. Peter could hear the creaking of his office chair as he rocked. "I wasn't going to bring this up, but it's better you hear it from me than someone else. I like to follow the news about you—after all, you're Gotham's cop and robber team—and I heard that your brother married Neal's aunt. Now that you're Neal's uncle, you need to be even more circumspect."

"You're telling me you're worried about my career?"

"No, I'm more concerned about you as a friend. When you have to take Neal down—and it's only a matter of time until you'll be forced to—he won't simply be your colleague but he'll be a relative with ties to your family. You're telling me that Neal wasn't involved with the theft of the Raphael, and you may be right. We've found no evidence to implicate him, but I stand my ground on him being a person of interest, and you'd be well advised to treat him the same way. I didn't include you in the investigation because you were too personally involved. You would have done the same if you'd been in my shoes."

When Peter hung up, his mood was as dark as the coffee in his mug. Kramer was unswayable. As long as he remained like that, what kind of long-term prospects would Neal have at the Bureau? What could he or Peter ever do that would change Kramer's opinion?

Sara had told Peter that Neal had also been placed on Sterling-Bosch's person of interest list for the Raphael drawing theft. Peter had developed a strong working relationship with Sterling-Bosch's CEO. Peter hoped he'd be more reasonable than Kramer. He picked up the phone to find out.

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

 

Neal reported to work on Wednesday morning, expecting to spend most of the day in the surveillance van, and he wouldn't object. With Mozzie resting at Janet's apartment, Neal was ready to celebrate one less mystery to his life. He wouldn't complain at whatever task he was assigned, even the file morgue.

Little did he realize this would be a day for the record books. April 20, 2005. The day the Dutchman sailed no more.

For a man who had eluded authorities for close to two decades, the ending went remarkably smoothly. The surveillance team in the van spotted Hagen entering the Met at 11:05 a.m. They contacted the tailing team who tracked him throughout his visit. When Hagen exited the Met, he was followed to a warehouse in East Harlem.

Peter and Neal left to join the field unit when they heard the news. Their plans had been made well in advance. Peter was conducting it as a stealth operation to avoid any chance of the information being leaked. Agents didn't wear their standard FBI jackets and the vans were unmarked. Jones had already procured the necessary warrant.

Neal waited with Agent Badillo in one of the vans while the team broke into the warehouse. Listening to the action on earphones was frustrating, but Peter was adamant. No gun, no participation. Even so, he didn't have long to wait. Hagen was taken completely by surprise and was captured without a single shot being fired.

When Neal arrived, Hagen and a couple of workers were already being cuffed, protesting vehemently all the while. Peter had a broad smile on his face as Diana read Hagen his rights. Neal had never met the man. His rumpled appearance was disappointing. This was the master forger who'd eluded the FBI for decades? Neal sniffed. He didn't deserve the title.

Peter walked over to Neal, still beaming. "I don't smoke, but if I had a cigar right now, I'd light it."

"And I'd join you, but not yet. Do you know what this piece of equipment is?" and he pointed to a machine in the center of the space.

Peter took a closer look. "Printing press?"

Neal nodded, slipping on latex gloves. "Hagen must have been working on something else other than the Raphael painting." He examined the press. It had been inked but there was no paper or plate in place. A stack of blank paper was on a table near the press.

Not finding any answers by the press, Neal headed for the art studio Hagen had set up in the back of the workspace. Hagen must have been working at the easel when he was surprised. His hands were smudged with paint and there were opened tubes of paint by the palette. On the easel was a half-completed _St. George and the Dragon_. Somewhat surprising. Neal had assumed Hagen was in town on a new commission, but he was continuing to make forgeries on the side. He must not have been able to resist the easy money. Would Travis find evidence of sales on his computer?

Neal walked over to a large safe in the corner of the studio. It was an older model with a straightforward lock. Neal glanced over in Peter's direction. He and Jones were talking about the painting on the easel.

A couple of minutes later, Neal walked over to join them. "That safe in the corner? The door is cracked open. No harm in checking out the interior, is there?"

"Why none at all." If Peter had noticed Neal standing close to the safe, he didn't let on. Neal let Peter have the honor of swinging the door open. There it was on the central shelf. Neal's breath quickened when he saw it. Peter turned to him and said, "Care to take it out?"

Neal slipped his hands under the painting to remove it from the shelf. He felt like he was carrying the Holy Grail. Was this the original? Peter cleaned off a space on Hagen's desk and spread out a clean cloth for Neal to lay the painting on. Neal bent over to examine it, and Peter didn't say a word, letting him take as long as he wanted.

Neal straightened up and grinned. "It looks good. We'll need to run it through all the tests, but I think we may have rescued Saint George."

Jones helped Neal clean out the rest of the safe's contents. Several thousand in cash, passports—those didn't particularly interest Neal, but there was something else that did. On the middle shelf was a document set in an archival protective frame. Neal pulled it out and placed it alongside the painting on the desk.

"That's no ordinary bond," Jones commented.

"You're right. It's a nineteenth century Spanish sovereign bond." Neal pulled out a jeweler's loupe and inspected it. "An original, not a counterfeit by the looks of it. This may be why Hagen has a printing press."

Diana walked up carrying a box and set it on the desk. "Travis found a printer's plate in the back storage area. This was on a shelf next to the plate."

Neal removed the sheets of paper from the box. "These are samples they used to test the inks. You can see how the colors are different on each one, and he's added a code to keep track."

"What can you tell me about the bond?" Peter asked.

"It was issued in the 1850s by the government of Spain, under Isabel II," Neal said. "I'd seen it in Madrid at the Prado Museum. This artwork on top? It's a fine reproduction of Goya's painting, 'The Harvest.' "

"I wonder if it's still legal tender," Jones mused. "If it is, it could be extremely valuable for more than just for the quality of the art."

Peter nodded. "Someone could have claimed to have found a box of them in an attic and turn them in for redemption."

Neal prepared the painting and bond for transport back to the Bureau while others sorted through the contents of the warehouse. Hagen and his crew had already been taken away to be booked. As they loaded up the vans with evidence, Peter pulled Neal aside. "Mind telling me where you acquired such expertise about a Spanish bond? It doesn't seem like something you would have studied in a course."

"You're right," Neal admitted. "Do you remember I mentioned a job in Madrid that I worked on with Keller?"

"Yeah . . . Was it for this?"

Neal nodded. "We never carried it out. Perhaps Keller did later. I don't know. That was the job where a crew member was killed and I quit. We'd been casing the Prado— the guy Keller shot thought he'd lost his passport at the museum. At the time the Prado was running an exhibition of Goya's works. The bond was being displayed as an example of how influential the artist was."

Once they were back at the Bureau, Peter conducted the preliminary interrogation of Hagen personally. Neal set to work authenticating the works while Jones and Diana researched the bond's provenance. The bond in the safe passed all its tests. Somewhere Hagen had acquired paper of the right age to use in the printing press, but he would have been tripped up by the inks he was using. He'd added petroleum distillate which wasn't in use at the time. Neal made a note to tell Mozzie. When Neal worked for Adler, Mozzie had instructed him in the finer points of counterfeiting. Although he wouldn't be thrilled that Neal was now using that knowledge to help the FBI, it might help him take his mind off space aliens.

Peter dropped in at the lab as Neal was finishing his infrared analysis of the painting. "Jones found out about the bond. There are only five examples of the bond known to exist. They're all held by the Bank of Spain. One of them was on display at the bank and had been stolen in mid-February."

Neal switched off the infrared detector. "Did Jones find out if it were redeemable?"

Peter nodded. "He did and it is. If Hagen could have gotten away with claiming he'd found an old chest filled with the bonds, he could have made millions. How are you coming on the authentication?"

Neal gave him the thumbs up. "So far both are passing all the tests." He pointed to the painting. "The signature appears genuine. Under infrared light you can see the circles and lines Raphael used to draw Saint George."

Raising an eyebrow, Peter scrutinized the painting. "Where? Are you telling me Raphael used stick figures?"

Neal grinned as he brought up the images on his monitor. "In a manner of speaking. Raphael was also an architect. Your brother Joe would appreciate the way he worked. Raphael used precise angles for his figures, first sketching their outlines in silverpoint. Whoever did this painting used silverpoint. Hagen didn't have any silverpoint styli in his studio. It's a demanding technique—I doubt he knows it."

"Do you?" Peter asked bluntly.

Neal pointed to his muse which was hung on his display board. "I drew that with silverpoint."

Peter nodded with satisfaction. "I expected nothing less."

"Even more telling are the pigments used. So far I've identified traces of azurite and malachite. Hagen would have had to prepare his own pigments and I can't see him doing that."

"I notified D.C. Art Crimes," Peter said. "Spoke with Kramer. He extended his congratulations."

"And also requested the works be shipped to them immediately, I bet."

Peter nodded. "I persuaded him to let us hold on to the bond, but since the painting was stolen from a D.C. museum . . ."

"I understand. At least I could spend some time with it. You know, after having talked about this painting for so long, that I'd get a chance to analyze it up close"—Neal turned to Peter and smiled—"This has been a milestone day."

Peter returned his smile. "Are you going to add another origami to that milestone box Byron gave you?"

Peter knew him well. Byron had used that box to record his successes in staying away from a life of crime. Neal likewise added reminders of achievements in his new life, only his were more artistic. "I already have one in mind. A dragon."

"You better make two origamis. Make a ship for the Dutchman, and let me see both before you add them to the box. The ship can also serve as a milestone for May."

"What's happening in May?"

"Hobhouse emailed me. Interested in a trip to London?"

Neal broke into a grin. "You and me in London and you're not serving me with an Interpol arrest warrant? That's an easy affirmative."

"John's secured approval from Interpol for a meeting of all the task force members at the end of May. One of the main items on the agenda is for us to discuss the software we're using at museums. I reviewed our strategy for Curtis Hagen with John. He'd like us to make a presentation on how we used the new tools at our disposal to capture him."

**Tokyo, Japan. April 20, 2005. Wednesday afternoon.**

The bell chime tinkled softly when Bryan McKenzie opened the door to the herbal pharmacy. He breathed in the heady fragrance of the pungent spices. The small store was lined with jars of exotic-looking ingredients. It brought back memories of the herbal shop near Mt. Fuji and his sensei master. His sensei had encouraged him to use traditional herbs to free his mind from emotions. The art of mushin he'd called it. Bryan needed that calmness now.

He could feel his jaw harden as he thought of his final dinner with Sara, but that hadn't been the case at the time. He'd used his sensei's lessons to prevent any trace of the anger seething within from rising to the surface. He'd acted the part of the jilted lover perfectly—a judicious blend of hurt and noble resignation.

He'd been surprised at how much it stung even though he knew it was coming. But now he could take that rage, control it, and use it. He formulated his strategy months ago. Now all that was left was the execution.

Bryan held off scheduling the Tokyo trip till the dates for the spring meeting in New York were announced. That started the clock. He'd already researched the supplier. Once he arrived in Tokyo, he spent two days monitoring the shop to select the time with the fewest number of customers. Nothing was being left to chance.

The optimal time turned out to be two-thirty in the afternoon and that suited his schedule with Sterling-Bosch. Yesterday in the middle of the afternoon no one was in the shop, and the pattern continued today.

The woman behind the counter looked like the photo he'd been sent. Short, middle-aged, a gentle smile on her face. The least likely person imaginable to be associated with the yakuza crime syndicate. His contact at Ydrus had assured Bryan she was the best. For what she was being paid, she'd better be.

"May I help you, sir?"

"Do I have the honor of addressing Mrs. Enomoto?"

She inclined her head.

"I believe you've been contacted about me. My name is Chuck Norris."

She hid her smile with her hand as she nodded. "An auspicious choice. I have your prescription ready for you, Mr. Norris." She bent down and retrieved a small glass bottle from under the counter as well as a sheet of paper. "I've written the instructions for you, but I strongly advise you to not retain them for long."

Bryan placed the package in his briefcase and left the shop. His suit may have come from Savile Row but his heart was that of a ninjutsu warrior. The ninja used poison darts to accomplish their objectives. He'd taken that technique and elevated it, refined it, and distilled its essence. Nothing could stand in his way.

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Neal arrived at the White Collar lab early on Thursday, but his plan to spend more time with _St. George and the Dragon_ was thwarted. The painting had already been shipped to D.C.

Travis, who sat at the next workstation, would understand his pain. He could equate it with missing out on the chance to take apart the latest high tech gadget. "I knew I should have come in last night."

Travis saved his work and swiveled his chair around. "You were at Janet's, weren't you?"

"I thought Mozzie would be interested in hearing about the Dutchman and the art we found, but he continues to fixate on aliens. Now he wants me to use my connections to contact Fox Mulder. When I told him _X-Files_ is a TV show and Mulder doesn't really exist, he mocked me for my naiveté." Neal paused to eye Travis. "I am correct, aren't I?"

"Trust me, I investigated it thoroughly. There's no conspiracy theorist lurking in any FBI basement that I'm aware of. You may wish to take a different tack. Don't try to dissuade him, but act like you believe him, then move on to question what evidence he has. That's what I've been doing with his alien slime theory."

It might work for Travis but Neal suspected Mozzie would simply obsess even more about little green men. Neal had also attempted to engage him by explaining what he'd learned about the Braque painting. Since Janet was in the room, he couldn't go into the details about Klaus, but he'd thought the knowledge that Fowler was looking for it would be enough to snap Mozzie out of it. Neal had misjudged his friend's obstinacy.

More than ever Neal was convinced that Mozzie's misadventure had been caused by his experimentation with a drug. He still had no memory of anything that happened from Saturday morning until Neal found him at Grand Central Station. All those chemicals in his bunker . . . one of them must be the culprit. Mozzie liked to play with fire, sometimes literally, and this time he'd gotten singed. He was lucky to still be alive. Would he ever remember what he'd done?

"I saw Henry's scheduled to attend the briefing on Adler today," Travis said, rousing Neal from his Mozzie musings. "When'd he get back in town?"

"Yesterday. He's living in his loft, in all its minimalist glory." Neal was looking forward to the meeting. For over a month, Henry had focused on the search for Adler and Fowler. He'd yet to hear about the evidence Neal obtained from Karl Huber's safe. Henry already knew about Jones's theory that Adler was searching for a sunken U-boat filled with Nazi-looted treasure. When he found out about the shipping manifest from the safe which contained a list of Nazi-plundered art, Henry would want to investigate a possible connection between the two.

Neal expected to be called upon to discuss the Braque painting. What he'd discovered would rewrite the game plan not just for White Collar and Henry but for himself.

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Henry sat back and surveyed the group skeptically. "This is how you run an op at White Collar? You guys are having way too much fun for it to be officially sanctioned."

"Hey, this is all strictly legal," Jones responded. "Under the Patriot Act we have wide discretion to search first and ask questions later. Since Karl Huber was suspected of working for Ydrus, a criminal organization with ties to international terrorism, Neal was acting within the provisions of the act when he searched the safe."

The team had spent the past several minutes  bringing Henry up to speed on the findings from Huber's safe. No one mentioned the ancient Egyptian bronze cat that Neal lifted at the same time to return to Raquel LaRoque. Neal planned to fill Henry in later on that decidedly gray activity.

"Karl Huber is the owner of Argos Shipping," Peter said. "Neal discovered his safe contained a World War II war diary and a shipping manifest. The manifest was incomplete but it contains a list of paintings known to have been seized by the Nazis."

"The diary turned out to have been written by Huber's father, Franz Huber, who was a member of the ERR, the Nazi task force in charge of confiscating cultural property during the war," Diana added. "Neal photographed the contents of the diary and manifest while he was at Huber's house and then replaced them in the safe."

"Was the Braque listed on the manifest?" Henry asked.

"No, it wasn't." Neal sat back and assumed his professorial look, something he'd been practicing in front of the mirror for the occasion. He preferred to wear glasses for this persona, but knew Peter would immediately call him out for grandstanding. "I researched the provenance of the Braque painting after you discovered Fowler was inquiring about it. _Provenance_ , that's fancy talk for its acquisition history."

"Gee, a new word," Henry said sarcastically, "let me write it down."

Peter was shaking his head at the exchange, so Neal saved his next salvo for later, and focused on the core idea he wanted to plant. "The painting was looted from the collection of Paul Rosenberg during World War II. He was an art dealer who represented many of the greats of the time—Picasso, Braque, and Matisse. Close to two thousand works belonging to him were seized by the Nazis. In 1940 the painting was documented as being in the Jeu de Paume National Gallery in Paris which was where the Nazis stored art they'd plundered in France. That's the last time it was mentioned."

"Is the documentation reliable?" Travis asked.

Neal nodded. "The source is none other than Rose Valland."

"And Rose Valland is?" Henry prompted.

Neal rolled his eyes. The effect would have been so much better with glasses. "She's one of the heroes of the French Resistance. She was an art historian and assistant curator at the Jeu de Paume. The Nazis hired her to oversee their collection. She secretly kept records of all the paintings and supplied intel to the French Resistance."

"Did you ever see the movie, _The Train_?" Diana asked. At Henry's headshake, she added, "It was a Burt Lancaster movie made in the '60s which was based on the book she wrote about her experiences. If you're going to be working with us on Nazis and looted art, you better do your homework."

"I pictured myself as more your guy in the field doing all the illegal stuff you're prevented from," he quipped.

"No, that's my job," Neal corrected.

Raising a brow, Jones looked at Peter. "I'm glad you'll be supervising them, not me."

Peter quickly brought matters back to the subject at hand. "So, Neal, what you're saying is that the Braque is now missing. Since the manifest is incomplete, we have no way of determining if it was on the list."

Neal nodded. "There's no mention of it in the diary. The theory that makes the most sense to me is that Adler has information the painting was recovered and is now in private hands. It may have been stumbled upon after the war, and the individual doesn't want to give it to the rightful owner. Possibly the individual doesn't even know what they possess."

"We already suspect Adler's searching for a U-boat filled with Nazi plunder," Jones, the U-boat strategist added. "The fact that Adler is offering so much money for it could mean that the painting is linked to the treasure. Perhaps it contains information about the location of the sub."

"Invisible ink, a code …" Travis mused.

Henry gazed around the group, a grin on his face. "You're kidding, right? Have you all been drinking the Kool-Aid with Mozzie?"

"Don't be so hasty," Jones reproved. "You haven't heard about the equations yet." As Henry looked at him doubtfully, he explained that a sheet of paper containing math equations had been found inside the diary.

"The equations are formulas relating to fractal theory," Travis elaborated. "We know the Nazis were experimenting with fractal antennas. The formula may relate to a fractal antenna on a U-boat."

"You're telling me Huber and Adler are working together?" Henry asked.

"Not necessarily," Diana said. "We have nothing that ties Adler to Ydrus or Huber except that both of their fathers were in Germany during the war. Perhaps they're working independently. "

"The information we found on Huber's computer was not incriminating enough to bring charges," Peter added, "so we haven't arrested him, but he and his ships are being carefully monitored. The ships have been targeted for what are being cast as random inspections in an operation coordinated through Interpol. No Nazi-looted artworks but several illegal gun shipments have already been seized. In all cases, Huber was able to avoid prosecution. He's been careful to keep his top organization free of any incriminatory behavior, but even so, we've made quite a dent in his smuggling operations. Several local operators have been successfully prosecuted and are now behind bars. The past couple of inspections have resulted in nothing suspicious being found. We believe that he's put at least a temporary halt to his smuggling activity."

"Are we agreed that Adler's interested in this Braque painting because he knows something that ties it to a cache of art?" Diana asked.

"As far-fetched as it sounds, why else would Fowler be offering so much money for it?" Henry admitted. "Fowler may have gone to Munich to research a lead about the Braque in Germany."

"That would make sense," Neal said. "Bavaria was a Nazi stronghold during the war."

Peter was staring at the image of the painting which had been projected on the wall screen. "You know the way the artist fragmented the still life makes it almost look like a puzzle. I wonder if there's something buried in those pieces . . . maybe a code or a location?"

Travis picked up his idea. "Or a formula? Perhaps a fractal code that would lead us to an antenna broadcast?"

Jones's eyes narrowed as he slowly nodded. "I like it, but it can't be a message that is visible on the painting or Adler wouldn't need the real thing. We're talking about invisible ink here."

Neal kept quiet during the exchange and let it play out. The discussion was going as he'd predicted. He was careful not to give the hint of a smile and avoided Henry's eyes. But for the moment Henry was also deeply immersed in Nazi speculations.

Besides, Neal wasn't really conning anyone. They were all working toward the same goal—all on the same team. It was simply he'd chosen a different route.

 

* * *

**_Notes_ ** _: This chapter has several nods to classic White Collar scenes. The telephone conversation between Peter and Kramer was inspired by the conversation the two held in the Season 3 episode "Countdown." In the canon episode, Peter's trust in Neal was at a low ebb. Fortunately, that's not the case in our AU. This time it's Sara who faces the real possibility of having to take down a friend, and she hates it. She became friends with Neal long before she learned of his past and she doesn't handle the present situation well. I've written about her dilemma for our blog in a post called "When you have to take down a friend."_

_Another classic moment I referenced was the scene where June gave Neal Byron's milestone box. That was written by the Caffrey Conversation creator, Penna Nomen, and occurs in Chapter 32 of Caffrey Flashback. Penna wrote about the milestone box in her latest post for our blog._ _That box was based on a similar item she used as a coping mechanism during a very difficult time in her life. I'm so glad she shared her experience with you. We all at one time or another hit a wall. Hearing how she was able to move forward has been immensely helpful to me. Penna hopes when you're confronted by obstacles you can also find a way to keep going._

_The initial theft of St. George and the Dragon occurred in Caffrey Disclosure. I couldn't describe Hagen's capture without including Easter eggs for the pilot episode of White Collar. The Goya Sovereign Bond that Hagen forged is fictitious. Hagen forged a Goya Victory Bond in the canon episode which was also fictitious. Since Goya often depicted the horrors and cruelty of war in his paintings, I preferred not to use a war bond in my story._

_Thanks to Penna for her help with this chapter and especially with Sara, and thanks to you for reading and your comments!_

**_Blog_ ** _: Penna Nomen & Silbrith Conversation_ _  
_ **_Chapter Visuals and Music_ ** _: The Raphael's Dragon board on the Caffrey Conversation Pinterest website_


	4. The Seven-Percent Solution

**The Bunker, Aloha Emporium. April 21, 2005. Thursday.**

"Which airline flies to Roswell? I must leave for New Mexico immediately."

Neal sighed. Enough with the space aliens.

Janet had called Neal at work in the afternoon with an appeal for help. Mozzie insisted on returning to his bunker. Janet argued it was much too soon, but was unable to control him. Although physically he appeared to have recovered, his memory still hadn't returned. Faced with an increasingly agitated abductee, Neal made a hasty call to Billy at the Emporium. When Billy declared he'd be happy to keep an eye on their problem child, the crisis appeared to be resolved. Mozzie was overjoyed at the news and Neal promised to stop by and see him after work.

But Neal knew his work was cut out for him when he entered the bunker. Mozzie was staring intently at a webpage displayed on his computer monitor.

"Look at this!" Mozzie jabbed with his forefinger at a paragraph on the screen. "He's had remarkable success after only one session."

"Who? What kind of session?" Neal walked over to view the webpage. When he saw the banner title—"Third Contacts and You"—he groaned to himself. He hadn't come a moment too soon.

"It's the only way!" Mozzie spun around in his chair, his eyes red-rimmed from excessive monitor staring. "I haven't been able to access my memories from the abduction yet. There's a shaman in Roswell who's brought forth repressed memories by the skillful use of peyote. I have to know."

Neal stared at him with dismay. "Not by going to Roswell—there has to be another way. You may be blocking the memories yourself because you're focusing on them too much." Neal reached over and closed the browser. "Come and sit with me while I have my dinner. Have a glass of wine." He didn't wait for an answer but went over to the fridge and pulled out a bottle, choosing the health wine blend. He spun Mozzie in his chair to face the worktable and shoved him next to it.

Neal took a seat on the other side of the table. "Henry was in the office today." Mozzie still wasn't focusing. His eyes were already drifting back to the computer. "We discussed Nazis and looted masterpieces all morning." That did the trick. Mozzie snapped to attention, his eyes brightening. "Peter had asked me on Monday what I knew about the Braque painting, and I told him."

"Not that you stole it!"

"Of course not. You know I can't do that. I simply talked about the painting itself. He asked about the painting's history, and I feigned ignorance. Little did I suspect that I actually was ignorant." Neal paused. Despite everything that had happened, it still hurt to admit it. "Klaus played me."

"What?"

"You heard me the first time."

Mozzie shook his head. "That's not possible. You aren't thinking clearly."

This coming from a man who thought little green men had abducted him? "You better reserve your opinion till you hear what happened. I never told you how we stole the Braque. I'd only been working with Klaus for a month. He decided we should steal a painting together as a training exercise. Klaus told me he knew a family who had an excellent copy of a Braque hanging in their house. They were friends of his parents. Klaus himself had visited their house several times. The family was quite proud of its acquisition and bragged about what an excellent reproduction it was. Since it was a copy, he figured the family wouldn't bother reporting the theft, and he was right."

"So you didn't realize you were stealing an original?" Mozzie interrupted.

"That's right. The house was in Oberammergau, Germany. Klaus's family owned a ski chalet there. We visited the place in the summer when no one was there. As far as I know the theft was never reported to the police."

Mozzie nodded. "The family probably assumed it was a teenage prank."

"Most likely. Klaus took possession of the painting afterward. He had me working on so many projects, I didn't think more about it. Then a month or two later he requested I prepare a copy to practice cubist techniques. Once I started studying it, I became convinced that what we had was an original Braque. I asked Klaus about it, explaining my reasons, and he agreed."

"Let me get this straight—the family in Germany bought an original which had been sold as a copy?" Mozzie shook his head in disbelief.

Neal shrugged. "It's happened before. With so many excellent forgeries out there, in cases of murky provenance, it's understandable how it could have been mislabeled." He put his glass down and studied his fingers. He almost could see the paint stains from when he'd been working on the Braque copy, the sunlight filtering in through the Geneva studio skylight.

"What did Klaus do?"

"First he checked on the history of the painting with his parents. Klaus told me that his mother had admired the painting and remembered the couple saying they'd purchased it from a dealer in Munich who specialized in fine reproductions. This was in the 1970s. Klaus went to Munich and found the dealer. According to the dealer's records, he'd purchased the painting from a German count who'd claimed to have bought it in the 1930s. Klaus didn't know at what time it was mislabeled a reproduction. What Klaus told me is a plausible story but it's also a lie."

"You're sure?"

Neal nodded. "When Peter asked me to research the painting's provenance, I felt like a fool for not having done so earlier. Before World War II, the painting was part of the collection of Paul Rosenberg. It was seized by the Nazis and disappeared from the Jeu de Paume during the war. It's currently listed as lost."

Mozzie got up and topped off their glasses with more wine. "You're being too harsh about Klaus's actions. Did he know about your views on Nazis and looted art?"

"We'd discussed it earlier," Neal admitted. "Over cognac one evening he'd speculated about where the missing art might be. He was highly amused at how I could draw the line at not profiting off the Nazis when I had no problem about stealing from anyone else. And now we'd stolen one of the paintings looted by the Nazis. He must have known about it. I had no difficulty in tracing its history. He undoubtedly checked the same sources. I trusted Klaus completely in those days and never doubted he was telling me the truth."

"I'm sorry but I have to agree with Klaus on this one. Your scruples have an annoying habit of rising to the surface at inconvenient times. The deed had been done. Klaus decided to keep the provenance a secret from you. He knew you would have insisted it be returned, just like you are now."

This was not turning out as he intended. Mozzie's defense of Klaus was disquieting. What would he say if he ever found out how Neal had been instrumental in exposing Klaus? "Focus, Mozz. What we need to discover is why Adler wants the painting, not why Klaus lied." Neal explained the morning's discussion. "This couldn't have worked out better for our perspective. The team is actively working now with Henry on trying to figure out the answer to that question. U-boat theory, fractal antennas, they're all fair game."

He beamed. "Excellent. Be sure to give me all their theories. One of their ideas may spark something for me. What are they saying about the equations?"

"That they may be connected to a fractal antenna. Peter mentioned how the painting looks like a puzzle. He's convinced it contains clues. Perhaps invisible ink."

"And how do you want to play it?"

"Now, more than ever I can't be found to have stolen the Braque. It's not just any painting. I'd be tarred along with the original looters. Nor can I let it be found. Then Adler would steal it away and we might never know the solution to the mystery. We need to recover the painting ourselves and discover its secret."

"Then what?"

"Then . . . If it leads to a cache of Nazi art, I'll sneak the painting back in with the others to be found. Or, once Adler is captured, I'll provide anonymous information where it can be located."

Mozzie gazed at him for a long moment then sighed. "Okay. We'll do it your way. Perhaps there will be a finder's fee for the Braque. I could be the one providing the tip to the authorities?"

Neal smiled. "An excellent idea. Go ahead and look into the situation for finder's fees on plundered art. We should be able to make that work."

"Any chance you could go to Paris now to retrieve the painting?"

"Not with my art exhibition coming up and final papers due shortly afterward."

Mozzie cocked his head. "I could go in your place?" he offered, looking like the impish Mozzie of old.

"I'm afraid not. Its location is too inaccessible. Besides, you've never been good with heights."

"You're right," he said glumly. "It's a pity. Still there's the page of equations. Perhaps it will provide a clue."

"I've written Fiona. I'll leave for Paris immediately after exams. In any case, with Longthorpe now to deal with, I can't just—

"Wait! What about Longthorpe?"

"He's the other reason I wanted to talk to you. Tricia Wiese was brought in to use her interrogation wizardry on Hagen." Once Tricia was transferred into the Behavior Analysis Unit, she quickly gained a reputation as one of the Bureau's top interrogators in addition to being an expert profiler. She was proving it once more with the Dutchman. "The Raphael painting and the bond would be sufficient to send Hagen to prison for several years, but they weren't much of a bargaining chip by themselves. When Hagen got into bed with Ydrus, he handed Tricia the weapon she needed to use against him."

Mozzie nodded in agreement. "Gentlemen art thieves have no business associating with terrorists but Hagen's no gentleman. Hale told me, he'd cheated friends of his on previous transactions."

"Then you won't mind hearing that Hagen's facing the threat of being locked up for a decade or more. What concerns him more than a prison term is that Ydrus will infiltrate the prison and kill him. He's trying to plea-bargain a new identity."

"Is he now? What's he offering?"

"In exchange for a new identity and protection in a federal facility, he's agreed to make a full confession."

"Did he confess to stealing _St. George and the Dragon_?"

"No, and that's created a new puzzle. Hagen admitted to having stolen several other paintings. It wouldn't have cost him anything to confess to the theft of the Raphael, but he insists he didn't do it. He also doesn’t know who stole the Raphael drawing. He claims he was commissioned to paint forgeries, and his boss is none other than the head of U.S. operations for Ydrus—Duncan Longthorpe."

"Not _the_ Duncan Longthorpe— billionaire business magnate and philanthropist?"

Neal nodded. "The very same. The news broke late this afternoon as I was preparing to leave. Jones and Diana were rolling into high gear to research it. Hagen also confirmed the existence of two informants—one within the FBI and the other inside Sterling-Bosch."

"Names?"

"Only their code names. So far Hagen hasn't coughed up any details about the FBI mole. He said the Sterling-Bosch mole has been in place for several years."

"So that clears Sara."

"Right. The Sterling-Bosch mole contacted Longthorpe about our con at the Lynx Mountain Resort, and Longthorpe called Hagen to warn him. We assume Longthorpe was also the one who contacted Rinaldi." Neal stood up. "I need to head on to class now. Are you going to be okay? You know June's offer for you to stay in one of her guest rooms still stands. You'd be close to your bunker."

Mozzie hesitated, obviously wavering. "My work is here," he finally protested halfheartedly.

Neal pressed home his advantage. "I'll stop by after class and we'll go home together. You'll still be able to work here during the day." He'd take his friend's silence as acceptance of the offer. This appeared to be as good a time as any to ask the question which had been bothering Neal for days. "Those chemicals in your cabinet … were you experimenting with drugs?"

"A seven-percent solution?" Mozzie shook his head. "No, I wasn't. Those chemicals were for my slime research."

Was Mozzie telling the truth? Neal wished he knew the answer.

**The Federal Building. April 22, 2005. Friday morning.**

At work the next day, the celebratory mood from capturing Hagen was set aside as the focus switched to Longthorpe. By mid-morning Jones and Diana had finished collecting their preliminary information and were ready to brief the others.

"Hagen may have fingered him," Diana said, as she flashed Longthorpe's picture on the projection screen, "but we have nothing, and I mean zilch, to charge him with. Hagen's provided no evidence. It's all hearsay from a criminal."

"But it may be enough for a warrant," Jones added. "We've applied for one. Longthorpe's such a pillar of the community though, we have to proceed carefully. He has powerful friends among elected officials, not just on the local level but state and federal as well."

"Hughes is handling the application himself," Peter said. "We conducted the raid as a stealth operation. Only a few even know of Hagen's arrest. He's being held under an assumed name at the correctional center. Unless the warehouse was under surveillance at the time of the arrest, Longthorpe shouldn't know."

Neal studied the image. It was one of the standard shots Longthorpe used for publicity. Longthorpe was fifty-two. He had the look of a wheeler-dealer with a smile that Neal recognized. The smile of a swindler who always had a con going on in the back of his head. He looked like a guy who wouldn't get his own hands dirty but would have no qualms about ordering others to for him. Slimy like a snake with nothing sticking to him. For an organization whose code names were python species, he was a natural.

The briefing moved on to a hashing out of surveillance and monitoring details. Jones had already initiated the search warrant process. Hughes had implemented a streamlined process for warrant applications that bypassed the normal routes. Access to the information was tightly controlled and registered, so if any additional leaks occurred, in theory they could be traced back to the source. As Travis discussed the types of wiretaps they'd use, Neal's mind wandered. He began doodling as he thought about possibilities. Nothing was popping up, but he knew it was there.

"Care to join us?" Peter asked pointedly. "What can possibly be more fascinating than determining the locations for video surveillance?"

Neal stifled the quip on his lips which threatened to escape. "We're missing a piece."

"What piece?" Diana demanded impatiently. "Stop speaking in riddles."

"Hagen's operation must have been going on for a few weeks at least. Why did he choose New York of all places to counterfeit bonds? Hagen generally works in Europe. What drew him back to New York?"

"We assumed he was here to plan a theft at one of the museums," Jones said. "He was spotted at the Met."

"Yeah, but so far he hasn't admitted to planning any heist. It may have been random good luck that surveillance picked him up at the Met. Has Tricia asked why he set up shop here?"

"She has," Peter confirmed. "Grilled him on the subject. He claims that he was originally ordered here to work on a job but he doesn't know what the job was about. He was later told by Longthorpe that he'd been replaced by someone else."

"Do we have any information about Longthorpe's home?" Neal asked.

"He lives in what must be splendor in a penthouse on top of 32 Vanderbilt Plaza," Diana said, "I haven't been able to find any photographs of the penthouse. Longthorpe only schedules interviews in his office."

"I need to see inside that penthouse," Neal said. 

"You'll have to wait for the warrant," Peter replied.

He groaned. "How long will that take?"

"One or two days at a minimum," Jones warned.

"You'll have to idle your engines," Peter added. "It can't be helped."

From Peter's look, Neal knew he wouldn't be able to get him to budge. He channeled his frustration into doodling options.

At the end of the meeting, Peter cornered Neal and delivered a variant of his standard lecture on the importance of paying attention at meetings. He still hadn't grasped the fact that by doodling Neal was able to stay awake through the most boring discussion.

"What were you doodling anyway? Dropping in by parachute? Pulling a James Bond stunt?" Peter's expression turned stern. "Neal, tell me you're not planning to go rogue on us. No parachute."

"What about a zip-line?"

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

As expected, Peter didn't sanction Neal spending his Friday afternoon researching a sneak attack into Longthorpe's penthouse, but he offered something else as a consolation prize. Sara had contacted him earlier that morning and asked to speak with both of them. She indicated she had an update about the Ydrus mole. Although the thefts of the Raphael paintings were being handled by D.C. Art Crimes, they weren't involved with the investigation into who was leaking intel to Ydrus. Hughes and Bosch were making sure that information was shared with very few.

Neal hadn't seen Sara since she arrived in New York and was waiting for her at the elevator bank. He pointed at his watch. "Late again? I hold my fake girlfriends to a high standard, you know."

"Aren't you the complacent one?" she said with a smile. "It's been over a month since our fake date. How do you know you haven't been replaced?" They kept up their teasing as they walked through the bullpen. "Any daring feats I should know about?"

He shrugged dismissively. "Same old same old. If you don't count the swamp witch and vampire nest, it's been deadly dull."

"Oh, really? Gee, I didn't read about any vampires in _The New York Times_."

"Not surprising. I like to keep a low profile on all my encounters with demons of the night."

Diana was scribbling on a notepad when they walked past her on their way upstairs. "Keep talking, you two," she urged. "This makes useful resource material. I'd forgotten about that fake date you went on."

Sara turned to Neal with a puzzled look. "Care to fill me in on the joke?"

"Didn't I mention it? Diana's writing Lovecraft fan faction these days, and she's basing her characters on the people she admires most at White Collar. I, of course, am the hero. Peter has second billing, and for some unfathomable reason, she even decided to make you the template of one of the characters."

"Keep it up, Caffrey," Diana urged, not showing her usual disdain for his jibes. "This will all come back to haunt you."

Sara tossed her hair back. "I hope you've made me a woman of mystery and intrigue?"

"How about investigative reporter?" Diana explained Sara's part in the first story.

"I'm flattered you included me, but it doesn't seem like a very big role, not befitting of my potential."

"Just wait till the second story," Diana assured her. "You'll be giving Neal fits then."

"Wait a minute," Neal protested. "I haven't heard about that. I may need to exercise my rights of censorship."

Diana snorted. "As I've repeatedly explained, you have no rights." She turned to Sara, "Do you sing?"

Sara's eyes widened. "You must be kidding? You were there at the party after the sci-fi convention. You didn't hear me sing, did you?"

Diana shook her head regretfully. "Too bad. It would have made a great scene. Neal, your alter ego sings. He's old school—accompanies himself on an acoustic guitar. Do you have any singers you'd like to suggest?"

Neal considered for a moment. "Paul McCartney, James Taylor, Paul Simon—you want more?"

"Maybe later. This gives me a good start."

"Peter will sing too, right?'

"No, Peter's not." The man in question had descended into the bullpen and couldn't resist throwing in his two-cents.

Diana sighed regretfully. "Sorry, boss, but you may be overruled. Your wife encouraged me to have you sing, and you know how much I value her opinion."

Sara glanced around at them suspiciously. "April Fools' Day is long past. You three aren't playing me, I hope."

"You can ask Peter if you don't believe me," Neal replied. "Now, every day when I wake up I give thanks for Detective Diana Briscoe having my back."

Diana snorted. "If only that were true. I should have your character echo those words. Maybe they'll rub off on you."

"Peter, you swear Diana's being paid to write the stories?" Sara asked as they mounted the stairs to the conference room.

He nodded. "Hughes himself has approved it. Didn't Neal tell you that at White Collar we specialize in out-of-the-box solutions?"

Once they entered the conference room, the conversation quickly turned to business.

Sara placed her briefcase on the table and pulled out a folder, handing both Peter and Neal a sheet of paper. "We've compiled a list of the Sterling-Bosch employees who had access to the records of the Raphael drawing. There are twenty-five names altogether." She pulled out a second sheet of paper. "This is the list of everyone who was aware that you were investigating Rinaldi. We're working on the assumption that whoever leaked the information about the Raphael drawing also informed Rinaldi at the ski resort. We already know of one employee who'd been paid off by Ydrus but he continues to insist that he had no knowledge of Rinaldi and we're inclined to believe him. He's a young employee and not a very good actor. He's been cooperating with Interpol on how he was initially approached by Ydrus and how he communicated with them."

Peter scanned the second sheet of paper. "And the names at the bottom? Are these the employees who appear on both lists?"

She nodded. "They're our lead candidates. They're all in town for the quarterly review and are being subjected to tightened scrutiny." She turned to Neal. "Comments?"

Neal raised a brow. "About Bryan being on the list? That must be awkward."

She winced. "Slightly. It's causing me to review all our past conversations and activities. When I saw his name I offered to recuse myself, but Mr. Bosch wants me to stay on. He's aware of our present strained relationship, and realizes that I'll probably be harder on him than on anyone else on the list."

"It could have been worse. At least you didn't accept his proposal."

"Wouldn't that have been a mess? Although next week won't be a picnic. We'll inevitably be bumping into each other at the meetings, and I won't be able to escape at the hotel either. Sterling-Bosch uses the Carlton Hotel just down the block from our offices. They have rooms they permanently lease for out-of-town employees, and naturally they're all on the same floor." She made a face. "With my luck, Bryan will have the room next to me. I'll see him at the elevator, in the coffee shop . . . Have I mentioned I've sworn never to engage in another office romance?"

"Next time go for a British lord," Neal advised. "Much safer."

She smiled. "Good advice. Perhaps Fiona knows one or two she could recommend."

"I'll run a check on these names," Peter said. "Any Ydrus mole is undoubtedly hiding payments, but foreign governments are being much more open these days about granting us access to financial transactions."

"I assume you've interrogated Hagen about the drawing?" Sara asked.

"We have," Peter confirmed, "and he claims to have no knowledge of it. He also swears he wasn't the one who stole the Raphael painting. In general, Hagen's been cooperating. Yesterday afternoon, he confirmed that an Ydrus mole is still active within Sterling-Bosch, so your suspicions about a second informant are correct, assuming Hagen's telling the truth. And it's hard to see why he would lie about something like this."

At the conclusion of the meeting, Neal accompanied Sara to the elevator bank. He hadn't talked with her since she broke up with Bryan and debated what to say. He'd never liked the guy and now had even less reason to. But Sara once thought she was in love with him. "About Bryan, I'm sorry."

She raised a brow, "Seriously? You're sorry about Sighin' Bryan?"

He chuckled. "Okay, maybe not, but I am sorry for what you had to go through."

"Thanks. I suppose it's inevitable to have disasters in the love department. When I have one, it's king-sized." She pushed the elevator button. "Fiona told me about a brilliant new artist who'll be exhibiting at Columbia next week."

"That would be yours truly, unless, of course, she was referring to Richard or Aidan."

"The way she was gushing, it could only be you. She's asked me to go to the exhibition and take careful note of everyone oohing and aahing over your paintings. Apparently she feels you might not do justice to all the praise that will be heaped upon you."

"Would you like to come to the reception on Friday night? You know many who will be there. Besides Peter and El, Henry will also attend, along with Noelle, Angela, and Michael. Richard and Aidan will appreciate having an additional friendly face."

"Thanks. I'd enjoy that. It will give me less of a chance to bump into Bryan . . . I assume you're not inviting him, too?"

"Darn. No more tickets left. What a shame." The elevator dinged its arrival. "Keep out of trouble, fake girlfriend."

"You too. A good fake boyfriend's hard to find."

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

When Neal returned home at the end of the day, he stopped to talk with June before going upstairs. He found her in the study, editing one of Diana's chapters. Two months ago June had offered to serve as beta reader for Diana.

"I'm glad you returned when you did," she said. "Diana's written herself into a corner and can't figure out how to resolve her plot. My mind's a blank too."

Neal sat down in the chair next to her desk. "Have you been able to coax Mozzie into helping?"

"No, and that's a discouraging sign. Normally, Mozzie would love working on a plot, but he's still too fixated on his abduction. It worries me that he hasn't returned to his normal self. We played _Candy Land_ this morning, and he didn't even cheat."

Mozzie not cheating? Perhaps he had been abducted after all. Neal did his best to comfort June. He'd hoped that last night's discussion would have been sufficient, but clearly stronger measures were necessary. "Where is he now?"

"He mentioned going upstairs to your loft. Said it seemed more like home. I hope you don't mind."

"Of course not."

She forced a smile on her face. "Give me some good news. How is Henry's loft renovation proceeding?"

June had been the one who recommended Henry's architect. Eric had designed the bathroom remodel for Neal's loft last Christmas. "Henry's going for contemporary, clean lines, lots of natural woods. One of the reasons Henry decided on the space was that he can have a deck. It will run the length of the loft. He won't have a view of the water but he can see Brooklyn Bridge."

"I expect Henry will also want to consult with Joe about the project when they're in town for your art exhibition. Besides your Aunt Noelle and Joe, who else is coming for the reception on opening night?"

"My grandparents, Irene and Edmund, are also making the trip. They'll ride up with Noelle and Joe. They'll arrive on Wednesday and return on Saturday."

"I'd like to host a supper after the reception. Chef Emil was complaining to me just yesterday that he was being underutilized. Elizabeth and Peter should join us. Henry, Angela, and Michael. Is there anyone Henry would like to bring?"

Neal smiled. "As a matter of fact, Eric is coming with him to the reception. Be sure to seat Eric next to the grandparents."

June chuckled. "I'm onto your sneaky ways, Neal Caffrey."

Discussing the reception with June was much more pleasant than what Neal feared he'd find upstairs, but after a few minutes, his conscience insisted on no more delays. Mozzie had seen Neal through innumerable crises. It was payback time.

Neal could hear the strains of violin music as he jogged up the stairs. The door to his loft was open.

Mozzie was sitting at the dining table, nodding to the music. An open bottle of Bordeaux and a couple of glasses were on the table. Neal greeted him and tried to engage him in conversation as he hung up his jacket. "That's beautiful music you have on. What is it?"

"Bach's Violin Partita Number 2. Sherlock was very fond of it, I believe." Mozzie stroked his chin and gazed up at the ceiling. "Sherlock and I have much in common, you know. Our extraordinary intellect, of course. Our capacity to derive solutions from the chaos of information around us."

Mozzie was smiling as he spoke. Neal took that as a positive sign, although he had misgivings about Mozzie comparing himself too closely to Sherlock. "Did you have a good day?"

"The best and I have you to thank for it." He stood up, went over to the kitchen counter, and picked up a glass tumbler by the sink. The glass was about a third full with a liquid colored an unusual light blue. Mozzie raised the glass, nodded to him, and drank the entire contents.

"What did you drink?" Neal demanded. No honey wine was blue. What had Mozzie done?

He sprawled in the chair opposite Neal and stretched his legs out. "I never would have thought of it if it hadn't been for you. Yesterday, when you asked if I'd taken a drug, it struck me, you weren't talking about the past but what I should do now—take a drug. And so I did."

"You didn't!" Neal strode over to his friend. "What was in that glass?"

"This will clarify my mind. I, like Sherlock, sometimes need the help of a seven-percent solution."

Neal seized him by the shoulders. "Tell me, you didn't take cocaine." His mind raced. What emergency measures should he take? Call  911, get an ambulance—

Mozzie shook off his hands. "Don't be ridiculous. What I took was much more effective. Sit down, Neal. You're making me nervous."

"I'm making you nervous?" Neal swallowed, trying not to yell at him.

"Have a drink. It will calm you for what's ahead." Mozzie reached for the open bottle of Bordeaux and poured him a glass.

"Why couldn't you have stuck with wine?" Neal said with a moan.

"Because wine wasn't what I needed. Now, no more interruptions. We don't have much time. Have you ever heard of the Cinderella drug?"

"You mean Goodnight, Cinderella? The drug used by girls in South America to scam their johns?"

"That's right. There are many varieties to the cocktail which can be altered to provide the desired effect. I've been conducting extensive research on the subject."

So he was right. Mozzie had been experimenting with drugs. "Tell me you haven't been testing them on yourself."

Mozzie didn't reply directly. "There's one variety, which I henceforth will call my Seven-Percent Solution which I believe will allow me to access my repressed memories of my abduction. Sherlock would have approved my methods while being jealous that I so many more choices available to me. You remember the drug Flashback you were given a year ago at the estate on Long Island?"

Neal's heart sunk through his stomach. "The one I nearly died from? It rings a bell."

"While I was doing surveillance, I helped myself to a few boxes. I realized they would come in handy and through careful experimentation I've achieved the perfect blend. I wouldn't be surprised if the aliens used something similar on me. In a few minutes I will enter an altered state, and you must probe my memory for what occurred during my abduction."   

"Can't I call the medics instead?"

"No," he insisted. "Neal, you must trust me. I, like Sherlock, will be fine. You will serve as my Watson, transcribing my thoughts and recording them for the final solution. In approximately sixty to seventy minutes, I will fall asleep. Since I won't remember what I said, you must record everything as you skillfully ask the correct questions to elicit the maximum information. It rests on your shoulders to draw out what the aliens' master plan . . . ooh, I'm feeling giddy . . ."

Neal viewed him with alarm. Mozzie was swaying back and forth in his chair, his eyes like saucers. He guided his friend over to the couch and helped him lie down. Retrieving pillows from the bed, Neal propped his head up. Should he go along? If Mozzie were right, he could at least find out what drug combination he'd taken and then they'd have a serious talk about drug experimentation. The trouble was, he'd thought they'd already had one. Neal had never felt so over his head.

How was he supposed to draw him out? Mozzie and he had watched an old _X-Files_ episode where Scully accessed Mulder's repressed memories. Was that what Mozzie wanted? Neal was supposed to be, not Watson, but Scully? Last spring when he'd been given the overdose of Flashback, Noelle had helped him retrieve his memories of what happened when Vance had injured him. But Neal was so out of it at the time, his recollection of how she'd guided the process was too sketchy to be helpful.

Neal took a quick glug of wine. The saving grace in this idiotic maneuver was that Mozzie most likely didn't have any traumatic incident to remember. Neal could play back the recording and prove Mozzie hadn't been abducted.

Neal went over to his desk and retrieved a flash voice recorder. Adopting what he hoped was a dispassionate, soothing tone, he asked, "Do you remember last Friday night?"

"Yes," Mozzie's reply was delivered in a low monotone.

"What did you do?"

"Worked in my bunker. Researched the effect of ingesting slime mold. I began with peach mold. When mixed with gamma hydroxybutyrate, it produces a most unusual effect. I felt my senses widen, my powers increased. I shed my clothes. I was free."

While Mozzie gave painfully precise details, Neal sighed with disappointment. Mozzie had mentioned GHB to Neal before, praising its use for insomnia and narcolepsy. He also admitted its use as a stimulant, calling it _lollipops_. Who knows what the effect would be if he ingested it with tunnel slime? Did Neal really need to listen to him describe his actions while under the influence? He was going to burn the recording after making Mozzie listen to it.

He attempted to move Mozzie along. "You were supposed to meet Janet on Saturday morning. Why didn't you?"

"I meant to. I couldn't. I was walking on the street when someone grabbed me from behind."

Neal stared at him. He didn't mention taking any drugs on Saturday morning. Neal pressed him about his condition before he left for the walk, and he sounded fine. He'd taken breakfast at the Emporium, confirming Billy's report. Had Mozzie really been abducted?

"A bag was placed over my head. I was hustled into a vehicle. By the sound of the engine I deduced it was a van." Mozzie paused for a moment, his eyes looking up at the ceiling. "There must have been a chemical in the bag which knocked me out. The next thing I knew there was no engine noise. Instead of lying on a metal floor, I felt the contours of a dental exam chair around me. It felt like pebbled vinyl, no, Naugahyde." He sniffed the air. "The smell of disinfectant . . . and perspiration . . . and garlic. Someone had been eating Indian food. I could detect a whiff of curry. Lamb vindaloo."

"Was the hood still over your head?"

"No. I remember lying there for several minutes, my eyes closed. A murmur of voices. They were speaking too low for me to overhear. Really quite rude. I chanced a look through squinted eyelids and saw . . . " Mozzie sat upright on the couch. "I saw Garrett Fowler standing in front of me."

 

* * *

**_Notes_ ** _: Was Neal teasing Sara about vampires and a swamp witch? The answer lies in Whispers in the Night, the story I posted before Raphael's Dragon. Although Neal and Peter had agreed not to discuss the events which took place at work, a little harmless banter doesn't count, right? So far, Neal hasn't brought in any of the photos. Meanwhile, on the Arkham Files front, Diana is currently working on the next story, "The Locked Room." It's a safe bet that a fake date will be included._

_The Cinderella drug is a nod to the season 5 canon episode "Controlling Interest." Neal's experiences with the drug Flashback were described in Caffrey Flashback by Penna Nomen. Mozzie and I thank Penna for providing such a creative idea._

_The first episode of Star Trek was broadcast on September 8, 1966. It's been our delight to include references to Star Trek in our series. Penna has written about the connections between Star Trek and the Caffrey Conversation AU in her latest blog post, "Happy 50th Anniversary to Star Trek!"_

_I've also included Star Trek references in the Arkham Files stories. Although the TV series had already ended by 1975, it was very popular and being watched as reruns. For my blog post this week, I wrote about the Arkham Round Table._

_Next week in Chapter 5: Lion on a Leash, Mozzie and Neal discuss what happened during his abduction and Azathoth returns to the stage._

**_Blog_ ** _: Penna Nomen & Silbrith Conversation: _ [ _www.pennasilbrithconversation.blogspot.com_ ](http://www.pennasilbrithconversation.blogspot.com) _  
_ **_Chapter Visuals and Music_ ** _: The Raphael's Dragon board on the Caffrey Conversation Pinterest website:_ [ _www.pinterest.com/caffreycon_ ](http://www.pinterest.com/caffreycon)


	5. Lion on a Leash

**Neal's Loft. April 23, 2005. Saturday morning.**

"That's right, Mozz. If you don't believe me, listen to the recording. It was Fowler who kidnapped you, not space aliens."

Neal refilled their mugs with coffee. He'd gotten an hour's worth of recording before Mozzie collapsed and fell asleep. Neal covered him with blankets and kept watch during the night. He was uncertain what kind of side effect he should look for, but Mozzie didn't have the sweats, fever, and nausea that Neal had experienced when he was drugged in December. Instead Mozzie slept like a baby, well, a snoring baby.

When Mozzie finally awoke after a fifteen-hour sleep, he seemed back to his old self. He demanded his shower cap and Neal's bathroom for his morning ablutions. While he showered and changed, Neal headed out to acquire the Crenshaw melon which Mozzie the Diva insisted upon for breakfast. It took Neal several stops at produce markets before he was able to find one.

Over a breakfast of French toast, Neal explained what Mozzie had divulged during his Cinderella-induced trance. Mozzie's memory was slowly resurfacing, but it was still spotty.

Mozzie pointed his French toast-laden fork at him. "You mock me for my drug experiments, but thanks to them, I'd built up a tolerance. Last month when I heard of Bolotnov's plans to brainwash you in Moscow to work for the Russian mafia, I knew I needed to prepare for something similar happening to me. Fowler and his minions thought I'd passed out. They didn't realize I was eavesdropping on their conversation. When Fowler injected me with the drug, I was able to play the part of someone under the influence in a display of thespian virtuosity worthy of Olivier."

Neal huffed as he contemplated him. "I grant you it was helpful this time, but you still need to promise me no more drug experiments."

"You're lecturing me? Aren't you the one who last month was quite willing to take pufferfish poison?"

Neal winced. Mozzie would bring that up. "And I now realize I was an idiot to contemplate something so foolhardy."

"At the time you thought the end justified it. The risk I took was far less than what you were contemplating, and it was worth it. All Fowler wanted to know was if you had the Braque painting or knew where it was. I was able to convince him that Klaus had sold it while you were in New York. I even overheard Fowler boasting about the skill of his interrogation technique. Adler will no longer bother us now that he thinks we don't know anything about it."

"But afterward . . . the risk you took. That could have been a lethal dose."

Mozzie shrugged. "It worked, didn't it? I couldn't take the chance that they'd inject me with an additional dose and I might reveal secrets. By faking that I was woozier than I actually was, they left me alone. That gave me the opportunity to inject myself with a dose sufficient to cause unconsciousness."

"You're sure you simply don't remember?"

"Not with the dose I took. The drug was marked sodium pentothal," Mozzie added, looking as if that explained everything. When Neal didn't respond, he added, "After all the research I've conducted, I'm an expert on the precise amount required to achieve the desired reaction."

"Did you know you'd suffer amnesia as a consequence?"

"That was an unexpected wrinkle, I admit. No doubt a result of the first drug they gave me. Still, we now have a breather. Time for you to recover the painting and for us to discover exactly why Adler is so interested in it."

"And for that I'll need to have you at your best. No more drugs, please."

He hesitated. "Very well. If it means that much to you. I'll agree to no more experiments with slime mold. It was causing unpleasant effects to my digestive system. I'd noticed quite startling results in the bathroom—"

"We're eating, Mozz. Let's leave the graphic descriptions for later, okay?"

"Very well, but I make no promises if I get bored."

"Will you at least warn me next time?"

"An equitable solution, one that even Sherlock might approve."

It had been a close call. Mozzie didn't know the exact location of the Braque, but he could have told Fowler that Neal knew where it was. Why was Adler so certain Neal had the Braque? Keller might have told him when he was in Argentina in December, but that raised the question of how Keller knew. Only Klaus, Neal, and Chantal had known about the theft. Chantal had been the first one to tell Neal that someone wanted to buy it. She wouldn't have acted that way if she'd told Adler. Besides, Neal trusted her. Klaus must have told someone before he died. Had Klaus worked with Adler?

Now Neal had the additional problem of Fowler. He'd managed to sneak into New York and kidnap Mozzie without any alarms being raised. Fowler was on the federal and international watch lists. How had he done it? Did he have an accomplice within the system? If Adler worked with Ydrus, was Fowler being helped by an FBI informant? Had Fowler left New York or was he still here? The questions swirled in Neal's mind throughout breakfast.

He longed to tell Peter. But how could he explain the kidnapping without revealing his knowledge of the Braque? Neal's relatives were coming to town next week to attend the opening reception to the art exhibition, not to see him slapped with an arrest warrant from Interpol. The time was long past when he could tell Peter about the Braque. He'd have to handle it himself.

Mozzie joined him in washing dishes after breakfast. "Are you going to be okay here?" Neal asked.

"I'll be fine. Janet's coming over this morning. There's no telescope workshop today and I promised June I'd help her with Diana's chapter. Now that my mental block is gone, I'll work on getting rid of Diana's. You have your fencing competition—the final one of the season. You should go."

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

"His amnesia was caused by experimenting with drugs?" Aidan shook his head as he took out his fencing jacket from his locker. "I hope Mozzie learned his lesson."

Neal had told Richard and Aidan about Mozzie while they changed in the locker room at the gym. He and Mozzie had agreed to pass off his disappearance as an innocent mishap. "That's right. You both know how fascinated he's been with tunnel slime. He decided to make a guinea pig of himself by ingesting some of the stuff with a few other ingredients he's refused to name. They resulted in giving him temporary amnesia. He's promised me he won't try anything like that again."

"It's a miracle he didn't come down with something far worse," Richard commented. "I remember when we first discussed the tunnels with him and he was terrified of catching bubonic plague from underground rat reservoirs. He needs to get some of that fear back. Should we plant a few rats?"

Neal smiled. Someday he'd have to introduce Aidan and Richard to Mozzie's pet rat, Percy.

"Is Mozzie coming to the fencing match?" Aidan asked

"No. He's resting at June's. Just as well. We've got a full crowd already—Henry, Angela, Travis, Keiko."

"Good strategy," Richard remarked. "We won't have room for any Harvard fans."

Aidan looked over at Richard as he zipped up his jacket. "Last time we met Harvard, you'd just begun and weren't competing. You should be proud of how much you've improved."

"But back then we were the Three Musketeers, saving the honor of a queen, rescuing her diamond earrings. Will we ever have another adventure like that?"

Neal grinned. "Fancy being a swashbuckler again?" When Fowler had tried to frame him, he'd had his doubts about the wisdom of bringing in Richard and Aidan on his con, but he couldn't have done it without them. Not only were they instrumental to its success but they turned a stressful situation into an adventure of the Musketeers. They used the names of the Musketeers as aliases—Richard was Porthos, Aidan was Aramis. Fowler was given the code name of Richelieu. Those aliases could come in handy again someday. Neal nodded toward Richard's locker. "I see you still have your voodoo doll for good luck."

"How about you?" Richard asked. "Fiona's no longer here to bestow a token of her favor. What's a knight to do?"

"She called me yesterday to wish me luck," Neal replied, "and I'm wearing her amulet, so I figure Harvard doesn't stand a chance."

"What amulet's this?" Aidan asked.

"This spring she gave Neal a Celtic good luck amulet," Richard said as Neal showed Aidan the pewter charm around his neck. "It's a triquetra knot."

Fiona had given it to him during the party after the sci-fi convention. Diana had been there. Was that where she got the idea of giving his character in Arkham Files an amulet? Neal's amulet had kept him safe from Keller and being kidnapped to Moscow. Would Neal Carter's amulet keep him equally safe from the priest in the yellow silk mask? And was that priest in the yellow silk mask based on Yellowface, the Masked Avenger, the crime-fighting bee superhero who starred in Aidan's video? Neal suspected he'd have better luck getting those questions answered than discovering the whereabouts of Fowler.

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

The amulet and voodoo doll must have worked their magic as the fencing competition was a triumphant success. Even Richard beat his opponent. They'd celebrated with their supporters at the Roaring Lion pub afterward. Neal was glad Henry joined them. Until his office was set up, he didn't know many people in New York. Both Angela and Neal were working hard to make sure he felt welcome.

After lunch, Neal and Henry accompanied Angela down Broadway Avenue to her apartment. "Could you scrounge one more ticket for your reception?" Henry asked.

Neal looked at him, surprised. "No problem. Who else wants to come?"

"I'd mentioned the exhibition to Eric and he'd like to see your art."

Angela grinned. "Why sure, bring him along. That will give Noelle and Dressa a chance to check him out, and they won't focus so much on Michael."

Henry grimaced. "Don't get sassy. You better not sic my mother and grandmother on Eric. That kind of ganging up earns you a foul. Besides, what makes you think we're dating?"

"Well, why aren't you? I've met him. He's a hunk."

Neal snickered as Henry said, "Hey, give me a break. It's purely business. He's the architect for my loft and Win-Win's new office space. Eric's into modern art. Knows much more about it than I do, which is zilch as Neal so often reminds me."

Angela nudged Neal. "Methinks he doth protest too much."

Neal chuckled. "Yeah. The old 'we're just friends' line—I know it well."

Henry glared at them. "I begin to detect advantages to living in another city. You want to change the subject before I call the movers?"

"Gladly," Angela said. "We need to discuss the relatives' schedule. And stop rolling your eyes, you two. This is a big deal. Noelle, Dor, and Dressa all attended Columbia but they know little about the liberal arts and fine arts programs. I'm giving them the grand tour of the facilities on Friday. Who else is available?"

Neal shook his head. "Count me out. I've already asked for the day off but I'll need to spend the day in the museum installing my paintings."

She crinkled her nose at him but finally acquiesced. "All right, Henry will help me, and that's the full day, Henry."

"Columbia's not that large. Why do you need so much time?"

"It will be midmorning before we get started, and you know how many questions the grandparents like to ply us with. I want to give them a demo of the recording studio, maybe sit in on some lectures. Michael can show them around the art history facility. Noelle saw it on Family Day last fall but the others haven't. The rest of Friday is taken up with Neal's reception and June's supper afterward. That takes care of Friday but we still have Thursday night to plan."

Neal shook his head. "I have a class. It's computational art. The last one before the final exam. I can't miss it."

She scowled. "You're not making this easy."

"Wednesday night I'm free for dinner. Would you like to go to La Palette? Jacques has remodeled the wine cellar as a private room. I could reserve it for us."

She beamed. "That's perfect. Dressa mentioned she wanted me to pick a place where you'd like to go. After all, this is your event."

"Yeah, enjoy the glory, kiddo," Henry added. "I'll have my own celebration when the new Win-Win office opens." He turned to Angela. "What's on tap for Thursday?"

"That's the day Noelle and Joe will spend with you going over your plans for the loft and office. I'm taking the grandparents shopping."

"I saw Sara today at work," Neal said. "She's coming to the reception."

"Has she set a wedding date?" Henry asked.

Neal shook his head. "Hardly. She turned down Bryan's proposal."

"What? Rejected Sighin' Bryan? You mean she finally saw the light?"

"Sighin' Bryan?" Angela interjected, grinning. "Is that what she called him?"

Henry laughed. "Not exactly. That was Neal's term for him because Sara used to sigh so much about him."

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

After saying goodbye to Angela and Henry, Neal spent the afternoon painting before returning home. He took a break mid-afternoon to call June. She reported that Janet had come over for lunch and had spent a couple of hours with Mozzie, but his frustration over the blanks in his memory was beginning to resurface.

If Mozzie kept that up, Peter wouldn't be the only one carrying antacids around. Would Mozzie imitate his newfound role model and like Sherlock resort to drugs again? Was Neal doomed to another night of a Cinderella-based rant? Faced with that thought, was it any wonder his painting session was a waste of effort? Neal called it quits at four and while cleaning up reviewed his options. There was nothing Mozzie could do about the Braque painting till Neal retrieved it. The Dutchman had sailed into port and was awaiting arraignment. Azathoth hadn't submitted any more riddles. That left only one possibility.

Neal stopped off for Chinese takeout on the way home. When he arrived at June's, she was working on Diana's story in the living room. Mozzie was sitting beside her in a chair, a pen grasped loosely in his hand and a bare notepad on his lap. When June greeted him, Mozzie didn't even look up.

"The game's afoot, Mozz," Neal called out. "I need your assistance." He waved the takeout bag enticingly.

Mozzie heaved a sigh. "Don't waste your time on me." He glanced up despondently. "That's from the Hunan Garden." His face brightened. "That can only mean one thing."

Neal nodded, raising his eyebrows knowingly.

"And what meaning is that?" June asked, injecting an extra dose of excitement to her voice.

"Neal knows I require Chinese food for strategizing. It makes me one with Sun Tzu, the famous Chinese war strategist."

She laughed. "Say no more. You boys have fun."

Mozzie peppered Neal with questions while they went upstairs, but Neal prolonged the suspense until they were in the loft. While Mozzie opened the takeout containers, Neal got out the plates and wine glasses. "You remember I told you about Duncan Longthorpe? I may need a way to gain access to his penthouse."

Mozzie strode over to the bookcase and retrieved the _Monopoly_ board. Placing the board on the table, he sorted through the tokens. "Is this with or without suit participation?"

"Better make it without. They don't know about it yet." Neal retrieved a bottle of honey wine from the fridge and filled their glasses.

"I like it already."

Neal chuckled. "I thought you would. They're trying to obtain a search warrant, but if they fail, I want to have a backup plan in place." He powered on his laptop and browsed to the New York City Department of Buildings website. "The city should be commended for making building blueprints available on their website."

Mozzie pulled the laptop over and entered his user name and password.

"Do they still know you as Marvin Goldblum?"

"Yes, Marvin's record as city building inspector is an outstanding one. He won employee of the month in March." Mozzie pulled up the blueprint for 32 Vanderbilt Plaza. Helping himself to a generous amount of General Tso's chicken, he ate while studying the blueprint.

"We don't have a lot of time to prepare," Neal warned. "Tuesday morning is our best opportunity. Longthorpe is scheduled to attend a Chamber of Commerce symposium that day."

"What is it you're looking for?"

"I want to copy his hard drive and find out what else he has."

"In other words, go on a treasure hunt?"

Neal shrugged. "It's a penthouse. It could be an Aladdin's cave."

Mozzie fingered the _Monopoly_ automobile token. "I haven't run the Kansas City Mudslide in a while. That could be productive."

"But the jackhammer may pose a problem. How about a Wally Burns?"

"With my rat as the distraction? One rat set loose in the lobby could provide just the amount of chaos we need and Percy could use an outing. The fresh air would do him good. Fresh air . . ." Mozzie's voice trailed off as he gazed wide-eyed into space, his mouth dropping open.

"Are you okay?" Was Mozzie suffering a delayed side effect to the Cinderella drug? Neal waved a hand in front of his face.

Mozzie slammed his hand down on the table so hard that the dishes rattled. "I remembered! I believe I found the solution to Azathoth's riddle!"

**West 110th Street. April 24, 2005. Sunday morning.**

The early morning air was unseasonably cold and damp. Fog had rolled in from the Hudson River. Neal thrust his hands deeper into his pockets and paced back and forth on the street.

"Do you know what he's found?" Peter asked, his breath condensing into a white mist.

"Not a clue. All he said was for us to meet him at the corner of Amsterdam Avenue and 110th Street." When Neal called Diana and Peter last night with the news that Mozzie had cracked Azathoth's riddle, they both insisted on being present. Mozzie better be right, or Diana would never let him live it down.

Ten minutes later out of the fog a figure emerged. He was clad in a houndstooth coat and deerstalker cap and carried a large magnifying glass in his hand. A little short to be Sherlock but otherwise he had the look nailed.

"Mozzie, get over here!" Diana yelled. "What are you doing in that ridiculous getup?"

He ignored her question. "Haven't you deduced it yet? You know my methods, and yet, you cannot see what is in front of your eyes?"

Puzzled, Neal looked around at the buildings. "Of course! I walk by here all the time and I didn't think of it."

"What?" Peter demanded, looking frustrated. "I have an excuse. I live in Brooklyn, remember."

Neal pointed to a building in the middle of the street. "That's called the Britannia."

"You are correct. I'd wager my Stradivarius that Azathoth is referring to the Britannia. Another name for it is the Gargoyle Building." The nine-story apartment building was only five blocks away from June's house. It had been built around the first decade of the twentieth century. Unlike the anonymous brick block apartment buildings typical for the area, the Britannia resembled an English country manor with flanking wings and a central court. The most distinctive feature, however, was the ornamentation. A row of whimsical gargoyles supported the second floor balcony of each wing.

Mozzie placed his hands on his hips. "As you recall, the riddle says, _Do you like treasure hunts?_ _Find yourself in the sky over Britain."_

Diana looked skeptical. "Why do you think he meant The Britannia?"

"Azathoth thrives on bravura displays. He wants us to discover the treasure. A building so close to where Neal lives is ideal. Haven't you found yourself yet?"

"There's something with Diana's name on it hidden on the roof?" Peter asked.

Mozzie shook his head. "Not likely. Use your eyes. A careful examination will reveal your answer."

Neal thought he knew, but he waited for the others to guess. When Peter pointed to a gargoyle, Neal smiled. "That gargoyle is of someone writing a book. He's holding a writing quill, and that smirk looks like something Azathoth would relate to. You think Azathoth chose the gargoyle to represent Diana and there's something hidden in the crevice behind it?"

Mozzie nodded. "It was elementary, my dear suit. Azathoth was writing to an author. This is the logical solution. I've already spoken to the building superintendent. You'll note the ladder next to the side entrance. Who would like to have the honor?"

"The author, of course," Diana said, striding forward. She pulled a pair of gloves out of her bag and slipped them on.

Neal and Peter moved the ladder into position, while Mozzie with a sweeping gesture beckoned her forward.

Diana slung a camera around her neck and climbed the ladder. When she was at the height of the gargoyle, she peered around its head. "It looks like there may be something wedged within it." She snapped several photos then reached into the space between the open book and the figure with her hand. The recess was dark. It was difficult to see how far back it extended. "I got something!" she called out triumphantly as she pulled out a small thin box. She scaled down the ladder while Peter and Neal slipped on their gloves. Mozzie continued to view the proceedings with a complacent smile.

Diana gave Peter the box to hold while she snapped additional photos. "What do you think of the gift wrap?"

"A token of appreciation for Arkham Files," Mozzie suggested, rubbing his hands in anticipation. The box was wrapped in pale green paper with a large origami starfish on top. "The starfish clearly refers to the soapstone artifact in our stories."

Diana narrowed her eyes at his use of the word _our_ but let it pass.

Peter studied the box, lifting it up to check the bottom. "We probably should wait for the lab boys to examine it before we open it, but …"

"Tosh, suit," Mozzie said impatiently. "It's too small to contain a bomb. Don't leave us in suspense."

"Boss, you have to open it," Diana urged, for once in full agreement with him.

The lid was gift-wrapped separately. When Peter raised the lid, a black leather inner case was revealed. The others pressed close to view the contents.

Inside the case was a bejeweled gold lion. It was a pendant, meant to be suspended. A gold chain linked the collar on its neck to the base of its tail. A large baroque pearl was used to represent the body of the lion. The pendant clasp was made of gold, enamel, and precious stones. After taking a close look, Neal stepped back. The origami hidden within a gargoyle . . . A jeweled lion . . . The leash . . . The message came through loud and clear.

"Neal, are you familiar with it?"

Neal looked up to see Peter watching him. He shook himself mentally. "It appears authentic. Flemish workmanship. Seventeenth century most likely. The Flemish and Italians were fond of incorporating baroque pearls within jewelry pieces. I've seen pearls used as the body of a gondola, or a centaur . . . even the body of a dragon or sea monster. Azathoth called this a treasure hunt. I'd say we found our treasure chest."

Diana studied the piece. "I wonder why he used a lion rather than a monster? That or a dragon would have been more appropriate."

Mozzie tapped Diana on her shoulder. "I understand you offered a free gourmet lunch as a reward for the person who solved the riddle. I'll prepare my list of suitable options immediately."

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

When Peter pulled Neal aside shortly after the discovery and said they needed to talk, Neal wasn't surprised. A secure location was required so they returned to his loft. Diana stayed at the site to supervise the lab techs who'd been called in to process the scene. Jones was also coming over. Undoubtedly Azathoth had hidden at least one camera somewhere to monitor the gargoyle. Surveillance equipment could be hidden in any number of apartments or adjacent buildings. The search would be a lengthy one.

Mozzie took off as soon as the FBI van rolled up, muttering to Neal he was returning to the bunker to work on the Longthorpe con. Neal had a pang of conscience at wishing just for a moment the warrant wouldn't go through so they could use Mozzie's scheme.

Peter didn't bring up the elephant tagging along behind them when they mounted the stairs to the loft. He even allowed Neal to make coffee. Peter the polar bear no doubt thought the weather outside was delightful, but the experience for Neal had been chilling on several levels. He took his time grinding the beans but knew he couldn't put it off much longer. It wasn't that he didn't want to discuss it with Peter, but saying it aloud made it true. He'd spent the walk attempting to assign a different meaning to the treasure, but he'd predicted in advance he wouldn't find one.

"Sit down. Stop fiddling with the coffee and tell me what was so troubling about that lion."

Neal opened a cabinet and got out two mugs. He poured out the coffee and took them over to the dining table where Peter was waiting for an explanation. They'd worked together so long, Peter knew how to make him talk. He just sat there, keeping Neal in his gaze, saying nothing. It was frustrating. If he'd try to engage him in conversation, Neal could deflect much more easily. His eyes involuntarily moved to the French patio doors. He'd much rather hold the discussion outside. But then his coffee would grow cold …

He cleared his throat and took a sip. Peter raised a brow. "It's probably nothing. The early hour. The fog. Mozzie dressed as Sherlock. You have to admit he looked like a ghost coming out of the mist like that."

"Why don't you let me be the judge of that? You think Azathoth is sending us a message with the lion, don't you?"

"Not just that. By itself, I'd be tempted to discard it as a coincidence, but in combination with the gargoyle . . . It's as if Azathoth wants to make sure we don't have any doubt."

"That this is connected to Klaus Mansfeld?"

"That's right." Neal looked into the coffee, rotating it gently to make waves. Could there be any other explanation? The waves revealed nothing else. "The origami is not a surprise. We already knew that Azathoth is aware of my interest in origami and we've grown accustomed to him toying with us. The gargoyle representing Diana is typical of his weird brand of humor. But gargoyles have a second significance. Klaus had a collection of miniature gargoyles. He even had me carve a couple. He had a gargoyle chess set in the New York townhouse that was a work of art."

"Which Klaus's tech experts, Jacek and Marta Kolar, also would have known about. We've suspected their involvement for a while. Klaus gave you the nickname of Lion Cub. Would they have known that?"

Neal considered for a few moments. Had Klaus said anything in the townhouse? They'd had several dinners together. It was hard to think back on every snippet of conversation. "That evening we went out to dinner and you recorded us? Klaus was ribbing me about what it had been like to mentor me. He might have said something. You still have the transcript. You could check."

"And this lion is on a leash. You could assign several meanings to that. Azathoth's yanking your chain. You're his to control. Here's another interpretation. Azathoth is reminding you that you're no longer the wild animal you were with Klaus. You told me how Klaus liked to think he was free to prowl the jungle, beholden to no rules or laws. He made up his own code of the jungle."

Neal nodded.

"You also told me that when you worked with him, you felt the same way. I remember when we stayed at the cabin last spring and Noelle was helping you recover your memory of the horrific incidents in your childhood, you mentioned she was taming the lion in you."

Neal grew uneasy at his line of questioning. "What's your point?"

Peter considered a moment before replying. "Do you think of yourself now as sometimes being shackled? The rules and regulations of the Bureau can be a nightmare. Be honest. You don't have to answer if you don't want to. That's acceptable. Deflecting's not."

"No, I don't and that's the truth. Do I complain at all the red tape? Of course. But do I want to return to the jungle? No. It's lost its appeal. I've learned that Klaus's code of the jungle is about cruelty and brutality. But I can also see where someone like Jacek might think I must be chafing and is trying to goad me."

"Unless this is a coincidence, Azathoth proved that he knows about your past with Klaus. All the other attacks and symbols had nothing to do with Klaus. We've suspected revenge being a factor, but this confirms it. What we can't yet determine is if he's targeting you as a way to get to me. Does he think he can manipulate me by going after you? A type of blackmail?"

"That doesn't seem likely to me. If his aim were to blackmail you, he'd go after Elizabeth too. What I can't figure out is if this is revenge, why doesn't Azathoth go ahead and try to maim or kill me?" Neal stood up to pace. "Why is he giving us a gift? Is that his revenge? Drive me crazy trying to figure it out?" Peter would no doubt order him to sit down, but he couldn't help it. He felt like he was going to explode. He spun around to face Peter. "Is this another nod to Arkham Files? My character's trying to figure out the meaning of that soapstone, and now I'm supposed to figure out what the lion means?"

Peter got up and stood next to him. "You need to take a lesson from your character. He didn't try to solve the mystery on his own, and you shouldn't either. And I'm not the only one fighting this with you. Tricia will need to be informed, but that shouldn't trouble you. You know I've been careful to keep the degree of your association with Mansfeld off the record, and she'll also be discreet. Jacek and Marta are now by far the most likely suspects. As Klaus's protégés, they could be seeking revenge for his death. You said Klaus liked to portray himself as your big brother. Perhaps he did with them too. Does Mozzie still not know?"

"I never told him how Klaus died or my involvement," he admitted. Peter was the only who understood how he felt. "It's a good thing I don't believe in ghosts, or I'd wonder if Klaus's ghost had risen from his grave to haunt us."

Peter gave a brief chuckle. "I think we can safely eliminate any ghosts from the list of possibilities.  Azathoth is playing with us both like a cat with a mouse, but we can use that and make it work for us."

Neal appreciated Peter's confidence. The knowledge that Azathoth was so familiar with his former life was more unsettling than he would have thought. "I don't like being a mouse. Can I borrow Satchmo?"

"You have me. That's even better."

Peter's comment caught him off guard. Neal had experienced his share of lucky breaks but nothing to compare with somehow managing to win Peter's friendship.

"And not just me," Peter added. "Remember you've got the entire White Collar team on your side. That cat picked the wrong mouse to play with."

Neal slid back into a chair. "Did I ever tell you that during the Mansfeld job in the fall, when you visited me at Columbia, I thought of you as my St. Bernard rescuing me from the snowdrift I found myself in?"

Peter smiled. "Next time I'll bring along my barrel of brandy. In the meantime, let's make do with coffee and research the pendant."

Peter pulled out his laptop and placed it on the table. Neal joined him with his own. It didn't take long to find the lion on the FBI's National Stolen Art File, but the discovery only compounded the mystery. The pendant had been stolen two months ago from the Walters Art Museum in Baltimore. Was it merely a coincidence that Baltimore was the location for Win-Win? It used to be Henry's hometown and still was for Noelle and Joe. Another coincidence? Peter didn't believe in coincidences and neither did he.

**A Castle in Hungary. April 25, 2005. Monday.**

"She grows impatient." He switched his cell phone to speaker and strode over to the mullioned glass windows. Across the broad expanse of lawn, the rhododendrons were in full bloom. "She reminds me daily about how much we could have made by selling the lion."

"That bauble?" Scorn resonating clearly in his brother's voice over the phone. "Its monetary value was a pittance when compared with the riches we've provided her over the past year. As a psychological tool, the pendant succeeded brilliantly. When she reviews the footage of the lion cub's face when he saw it, she'll understand."

"You're satisfied with our progress?"

"We're further along than I'd initially estimated. The first phase is complete. The kidnapping, the flash drive, the card, the convention—they've all exceeded my expectations."

He strolled to the sideboard and poured himself a cognac. His brother's confidence calmed his initial doubts. "I assume you confirmed my hypothesis."

"Yes. The key is isolation." The faint honk of a car came through the speaker. "Bit by bit we sever the tethers holding him to New York. Burke, the FBI, his friendships, his loves. It will be like before. We'll be there to pick up the pieces when he disintegrates."

He perched on the edge of the couch and rotated the glass gently in his fingers. "The obstacle I foresee is patience. She's presses me daily for an early resolution. I counter we're in no hurry. I say we wait till he's built up more connections. The more inroads he makes with Interpol, the more valuable he'll be."

"I agree. Use your charm on her. It's her one vulnerability. Exploit it."

"What about Burke? Any chance of turning him?"

His brother gave a slow exhale, taking a moment to respond. "It appears remote, but there's a chance. We should make the attempt."

"You're not letting those stories influence you?"

"Don't insult me. It's simply a matter of keeping our options open. At the moment his greatest value is for the leverage he gives us with the cub. He's far too valuable an asset to be squandered early."

"I wish I had something more concrete to present her. She's still furious over Hagen's capture. What did Kramer have to say to excuse his failure?"

"He claims White Collar slapped tighter controls on sensitive information. He didn't find out about the plans in time to act."

"And now we've lost _St. George and the Dragon_."

"True, but we sold enough forgeries to make up for its loss. We wouldn't have been able to continue that for much longer. It's time to move on."

"If Kramer fails us again, he should be replaced."

"Not till we have someone to step in his place. Thanks to him, we've already been able to plant the seeds of mistrust and suspicion around our cub. The first sprouts have already appeared."

"Were you able to resolve the Hagen problem?"

"Unfortunately not. He's in a maximum security section, and our agent hasn't been able to gain access. In any case, Hagen's understanding of our operations is so minimal, his capture shouldn't pose a risk."

"When do you return to London?"

"Tomorrow. Have your travel plans stayed the same?"

"Yes. I leave for New York in two days."

"I visited the Met yesterday. It was tempting to leave a business card, but I'll leave that for you. I assume you still plan to visit the exhibition?"

"Of course." He smiled at the thought. "It's time to pay a return visit to Columbia."

 

* * *

**_Notes_ ** _: We're used to Neal and Peter presenting a united front against their foes, but heroes aren't the only ones who form strong alliances. Villains can occur in pairs too. I wrote about the power of two for our blog this week. That's a concept with which I'm very familiar since I have the exceptional good fortune to have Penna as a co-conspirator. In Penna's post, she describes how she drew upon her real world experiences for Neal's first days on the job in Choirboy Caffrey and By the Book._

_The baroque lion is a real piece of jewelry. In the sixteenth century baroque pearl pendants were all the rage. In addition to the lion, I pinned a sea monster and a dragon to the Raphael's Dragon Pinterest board. These extravagant masterpieces would set any jewel thief's heart on fire._

_References to earlier stories: The first fencing match with Harvard was in The Queen's Jewels. In that same story, Neal introduced Mozzie to the university tunnel network. Neal compares Mozzie's recovery to the time he was drugged in An Evening with Genji. The attempt by the Russian mafia to kidnap Neal was in The Mirror._

_Diana is playing it close to the vest about whether the priest in the yellow silk mask in Arkham Files was inspired by the crime-fighting bee Yellowface, but she admitted Fiona gave her the idea for Neal's amulet._

_For all those who love to boo at Bryan, in next week's chapter you'll have plenty of reason to indulge. Thanks for reading!_

**_Blog_ ** _: Penna Nomen & Silbrith Conversation: _ [ _www.pennasilbrithconversation.blogspot.com_ ](http://www.pennasilbrithconversation.blogspot.com) _  
_ **_Chapter Visuals and Music_ ** _: The Raphael's Dragon board on the Caffrey Conversation Pinterest website:_ [ _www.pinterest.com/caffreycon_ ](http://www.pinterest.com/caffreycon)


	6. A Mole is Captured

**White Collar. April 25, 2005. Monday morning.**

_Jacek Kolar is Azathoth._

As Neal arrived at work on Monday morning, he continued to puzzle over the likelihood that the quiet Czech geek or his wife Marta was the cybercriminal mastermind they'd been pursuing for months. Jacek had the technical expertise to write the programs—Aidan had verified that through his contacts in Eastern Europe. Despite the efforts taken to keep details surrounding Klaus's death classified, Jacek could have discovered the truth and was seeking revenge. His wife Marta was a gaming programmer and graphics designer. She easily could have devised the house of horror where Neal and Peter were held prisoner.

But there was a streak of cruelty to Azathoth's actions that Neal found difficult to equate with the Jacek and Marta he knew from that week in Klaus's townhouse. Was Azathoth taking advantage of Klaus's death to obscure his true motive, or was Neal trying to avoid feeling guilty? If the Kolars weren't involved, revenge wouldn't be a factor. Neal's thoughts continued to spin in a never-ending roulette wheel around Azathoth, Jacek, and Marta, but the ball never stopped on any of them.

Peter had called Tricia the previous day to update her on the lion pendant and their suspicions. She was scheduled to meet with him and Peter this morning. Neal was eager to hear what her take was.

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

"I know all signs point to Jacek or Marta, but I still have my doubts." Tricia stood at the whiteboard in the conference room and began writing. Neal and Peter were the only other ones attending the briefing.

"Let's outline what we know about Azathoth so far." She wrote "Lovecraft" at the top of the board. "Beyond his fascination for Lovecraft, what other traits does he possess? He's displayed interest in art, puzzles, and cryptography. The way he hid clues in the Galileo manuscript last October shows us that he's fluent in Latin and understands Renaissance astronomical devices."

"He's either an expert programmer or has attracted the best talent to work for him," Peter added.

"We know he's wealthy," Neal said. "He was able to stage the kidnapping. He also may be European. The earliest uses of the malware that we've detected were in European museums."

She nodded. "I also think it's likely he comes from an academic background."

"Several times Azathoth has demonstrated a knowledge of Neal and me," Peter said. "It's possible he stole the Galileo manuscript because he was aware of my interest in astronomy. The origami that he added to the Christmas tree at the Museum of Natural History in December showed that he was aware not only of Neal's skill but also that Neal was helping out with the tree."

Neal turned to Peter. "And the card he slipped into your newspaper that had my doctored image? Azathoth didn't pick a random section. He knew you'd look at the hockey section."

"That card was nothing compared to the complexity of the hoax Azathoth pulled at the sci-fi convention this spring," Peter countered. "Hacking the email systems of Scima Workshop and Paramount Pictures to convince them to work on a film version of a Lovecraft short story? That was a more elaborate hoax than anything he'd attempted before."

"And he referenced Neal by choosing a short story which featured an artist living in a loft," Tricia noted. "You can't get much more personal than that. Now we can add another data point—a connection to Klaus Mansfeld."

"We've speculated for a while Azathoth is being driven by revenge," Peter said, "and Jacek and Marta Kolar are the only ones we know of that have a connection to Mansfeld. Why are you reluctant to believe one of them could be Azathoth?"

"The complexity of the strategy, the use of abstruse codes, his knowledge of Latin. The person who designed the riddle contained within the Galileo manuscript not only knew Latin but was familiar with how Renaissance armillary spheres worked." Tricia shook her head and chuckled. "I looked at those Apian wheel diagrams that were the key to solving the mystery. I like to think I'm of reasonable intelligence but I couldn't begin to figure out how the wheels were meant to be used. Jacek and Marta are roughly Neal's age." She looked pointedly at Neal. "Did you understand them?"

Neal snorted. "Without Mozzie and Peter, I would have been sunk."

"The main reason I'm discounting the Kolars, though, is that it's difficult for me to believe they would go to such extreme lengths for revenge. Neal didn't know them in Europe. The earliest Jacek and Marta could have begun working with Klaus was two years ago."

"Klaus told me they'd only been working with him for a year," Neal added. "He could have lied, of course, but it's hard to understand why he would have. I have the same doubts you have. I can easily picture them as Azathoth's tech experts but not as Azathoth."

"So who's left?" Peter asked. Neal could hear the frustration in his voice. "It's someone who knows of Neal's connections to Mansfeld and has deep enough ties to warrant this type of revenge. We've already researched Mansfeld's relatives. His father still runs the investment firm. Neither he nor his wife has a hint of anything suspicious in their backgrounds. Klaus had two brothers, Rolf and Egon. Neal, you said Klaus didn't get along with Egon."

"That's right. According to him, Egon was a carbon copy of his dad. No appreciation of art or music. Sticklers for rules and following the letter of the law. Klaus was contemptuous of both of them."

"How about his older brother, Rolf?" Peter asked.

"Rolf was a different story. The brothers were close, although there was quite an age gap. About twelve years or so as I recall. Rolf died about a year before I met Klaus. Car accident. Klaus was devastated. Chantal filled me in on what had happened. He kept his grief private, but I think the tragedy may have colored his personality. Klaus was always so intense and viewed himself above the law. Losing his brother may have had something to do with it."

"Rolf is an interesting case," Tricia added. "He had a doctorate in mathematics and taught at the University of Bremen. He was also on a research team involved with artificial intelligence." She turned to Neal. "Were you aware of that?"

Neal shook his head. "I knew he was brilliant, but Klaus rarely mentioned him to me. I assumed he found talking about his brother too painful."

"Your intelligence must have been part of the reason Klaus thought so highly of you," Peter commented.

Neal winced. "I don't know about that, but he lectured me often enough about going back to school and getting a degree. I agree Rolf's background is intriguing, but since he's dead, it's a moot point."

She left the whiteboard and took a seat next to them. "You're probably right. If he were alive I'd list him as my prime suspect. I'm beginning to feel like we've landed in an _X-Files_ plot where our lead candidate is a dead man."

Neal appreciated her injection of a little humor into what was becoming an increasingly tense discussion. "I've heard of people faking their death."

"I wondered about that myself," Peter admitted. "I asked Interpol to review the case. Rolf had been identified by his parents and cremated afterwards. So unless we want to consult a psychic, that door is shut. How about a woman? In crimes of revenge a lover is often the culprit. Cherchez la femme."

"Très bien, Pierre," Neal replied, "but I hope you're not suggesting Chantal."

"No, I'm not. We've researched her and are confident she's not leading a clandestine life as a cybercriminal. But was Klaus faithful to her? Perhaps he had a mistress?"

"I can ask her about it. She divorced Klaus a month after I returned to New York, but I only found out about it last fall. The few times we've talked, she's never mentioned anyone, but she probably wouldn't unless I ask her directly."

Tricia nodded absently. She'd been taking notes, but placed her pen down, her eyes drifting over to the window. "We've been tying Azathoth to a personal vendetta against the two of you because of Klaus, but we could be going in the wrong direction. What if instead of revenge, the motif is recruitment?"

"Explain," Peter demanded.

She returned to the whiteboard and started a new column. "We've discussed Azathoth selling his malware to Ydrus. What if instead he is either the head or a close associate to the head of Ydrus? We don't know if Azathoth is a woman, but we believe the head of Ydrus to be one. So let's assume Azathoth is a she. Jacek and Marta work for her. Ydrus started out in arms smuggling. Over the past few years they've expanded their operations into the field of art crimes, and Neal, you're known as one of the best in the field. She could be playing psychological warfare on you, trying to increase your feelings of guilt over Mansfeld with the goal of persuading you to return to your old life."

"We've already had one instance where Yuri Bolotnov tried to kidnap Neal and take him to Russia," Peter added. "It's possible Ydrus has similar designs."

She turned to Peter. "And you may be targeted as a potential ally as well. We suspect Ydrus has an informant within the FBI. They may consider you another candidate."

Peter huffed and Neal agreed. "That's hard to believe. I don't know of anyone more ethical than Peter."

"I don't dispute what you say, but you're too personally involved. Both of you. Look at it from their perspective. Peter, your reputation is impeccable … up to a little over a year ago. Then you persuade the Bureau to bring in a con man, a suspected criminal. It may have impressed Ydrus at how successful you've been in integrating Neal into the organization. Your closeness to Neal is no secret. Now, with your brother Joe having married Noelle, the sister of Neal's mother, you're Neal's uncle. That family connection muddies the waters. And not only that. Through Noelle's son Henry, you have close ties to Win-Win who has been known to play fast and loose with the law and government regulations. Neal's vulnerability is his record. Ydrus knows what an expert con artist and forger he is. They could easily feel that his past life is an addiction he can never free himself of, and they intend to use that as a weapon. Peter, your vulnerability in their eyes is Neal."

Neal had worried about that before, but to hear Tricia say it so bluntly was tough. He quickly composed his face into a mask to hide the hurt. Peter wasn't as successful in disguising his feelings and Neal appreciated the flash of dismay that crossed his face.

"That came out harsher than I meant," Tricia quickly added. "Neal, you also add to his strength."

"If that's what they're thinking, we can use it to trap them," Peter added confidently. "I'd say you're the best weapon we have. It may be time for the ultimate con where we lead them to believe you've returned to your old ways and we can use that to draw them out. If they think I'm vulnerable, I could work with that."

Peter talking about running a con? Neal gave him a smile, tamping down his own churning stomach.

"Tomorrow I'll talk with Hughes," Peter said. "This reinforces the need for us to work off grid. Until the mole is exposed, we'll have to toss out the normal procedures for file processing on all matters concerning Azathoth, Ydrus, and Adler as well."

"I agree," Tricia said. "Both of you should be prepared that it may get very personal. On the plus side, if our theory is correct, you won't be subjected to physical threats. But mental? Emotional? I'd say the odds are even higher."

After she left, Peter lingered to talk. His words of reassurance that Neal wasn't a liability were welcome. Neal suspected that Peter was concerned he was considering running away. But that wasn't on the table. If he fled, Peter's reputation would be damaged even further. Their only option was to fight it together.

Now more than ever he'd have to safeguard Peter's reputation. If Ydrus were looking for an opportunity to attack him, Neal wasn't about to help them by supplying the ammunition. He'd been wavering in his decision not to tell Peter about the Braque painting. But for Peter's sake, it was critical he remain unaware. Neal was Peter's Achilles heel. That was the reality and he'd have to live within its constraints.

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

The rest of Monday was a waiting game for the search warrant that never came. Neal chafed at the thought of what Longthorpe could be destroying. More than ever he wished he could implement the plan he and Mozzie had devised. Percy needed a workout. The last time Neal had seen Mozzie's rat at Sal's, it was obvious he was being fed too much. The rat was in danger of becoming a blimp.

Normally, Neal would have pressed Peter to approve his plan. But Azathoth's manipulations had quashed that. If Neal messed up, not only would his career be in jeopardy, but Peter's as well. For Peter's sake, he couldn't involve him in any Caffrey maneuvers. No Percy.

But it wouldn't be easy—he was already feeling leashed. Just like that lion … was that what Azathoth intended?

Midday arrived and still no search warrant. Neal regretted he'd brown-bagged his lunch. No excuse to take a walk. But if he left, the warrant was bound to arrive and he wouldn't be there to accompany the team.

He sighed and headed for the breakroom. No one else was there when he arrived. Just him and the bare white walls. Why hadn't Peter let him paint a mural yet? What kind of mural would he paint? He took his bag out of the fridge and sat at the table, staring at the wall gloomily. A surrealist fantasy or something abstract? A trompe l'oeil of open safes filled with treasure?

"Why are you staring at the wall?" Peter asked, walking in and going to the fridge.

"Just planning my mural."

"You should make it an exercise in strategic thinking," Jones suggested, joining them. Peter tossed him his lunch bag. It was required that all bags be marked with names after that regrettable incident when Hughes had taken Peter's deviled ham sandwich by mistake.

Jones's arrival gave Neal the opportunity to annoy him with entreaties to speed things up.

"We're working with a limited group of Justice Department officials for warrants because of the heightened confidentiality restrictions," he said as an excuse. "This time we're suffering the consequences. The official in charge of the review process is in the hospital undergoing a hip replacement. Obtaining the proper clearance from a backup official is taking longer than we anticipated."

Neal added an extra dose of pitiful overtones to his moan. "Longthorpe could be destroying evidence while we sit on our hands. He has to know that Hagen's been captured."

Peter shot him a quick look. "Don't go lone wolf on this, Neal."

"I'm not," he quickly assured him. "The FBI procedural manual is my guide in all things."

"Now I know you're planning something."

Neal sighed. "I wasn't joking."

"Well, you don't have to look so miserable about it. Jones, do you have a time estimate for the warrant?"

"I was assured we'd get it early tomorrow morning."

Peter nodded. "We'll use that for our timetable and tentatively schedule the operation for tomorrow morning."

**Sterling-Bosch Headquarters. Monday afternoon.**

The speaker glanced at his watch. "It's three o'clock. Let's take a break. We'll start up again at three thirty."

Bryan McKenzie put down his pen and stretched his arms in front of him, flexing his fingers. "Finally. After hours of sitting through revenue analysis, I'm going to stretch my legs. I may be a little late. I need to make a call to the San Francisco office."

His colleague shrugged. "Don't rush back. The first session went on so long, everyone will take their time. Bring me back a decent cup of coffee when you return."

Bryan smiled easily. "My pleasure." He stood up and joined the throng leaving the conference room.

The elevator was full so he opted for the stairs. The stairwell was empty. No one to notice him fly down the steps two at a time. If anyone entered, he'd claim he was sneaking in some cardio. But his excuse turned out to be unnecessary. When he arrived at the lobby, Bryan slowed down to a stroll. Once out of the building, he sped up his pace to the Carlton Hotel at the end of the block. Not for the first time he savored the convenience of the Sterling-Bosch corporate hotel rooms. It was as if Sterling-Bosch was not only sanctioning but facilitating his actions.

He knew from the start that Sara was a long shot. If he could have reeled her in, she would have been quite the prize. And he would have succeeded if it hadn't been for Caffrey. But no matter. Ydrus had paid generously for his efforts. Bryan hadn't needed their counsel to realize he should have a contingency plan in place. Now his diligence was paying off. Eliminate Sara and Caffrey in one perfectly timed strike.

The poison was procured, the needle obtained, the card was ready. He'd placed the order online to the chocolate house the previous afternoon. Last winter when he'd copied Sara's credit card information, he'd considered it a pro forma move. Insurance against any eventuality.  He hadn't expected to collect on the policy so soon, but he was ready.

The store guaranteed delivery the following morning. Bryan had stayed at the hotel so frequently he knew the routine. As he walked through the front doors, he pictured the deliveryman taking the package to the concierge desk. The concierge would have called Sara's room to leave a message and placed the package in the pickup area.

Now it was a simple matter of calling the concierge away from her desk. Bryan walked to the telephone bank and placed the call. He'd researched the hotel manager already and rehearsed his accent, his inflections. Imitating his voice was trivial. As expected, as soon as she got the request to assist one of the guests in the penthouse, the concierge scurried off to the elevator.

Bryan slipped behind her desk and retrieved the package. He was prepared to claim he was picking it up for Sara if anyone stopped him but no one did. The final touch. Bryan took out a note he'd forged in Sara's handwriting that she'd picked up the package. He placed it on the center of the concierge desk.

Bryan's heart beat faster as he took the elevator up to his room. To set the plan in motion was exhilarating. He'd have to ask Ydrus for more demanding assignments. Soon he could tell Python herself about his accomplishment.

He checked his watch. Seventeen minutes had elapsed. No time to waste. He retrieved his supplies from the hidden compartment in his suitcase, and injected the chocolates. The supplies he'd dispose of in a trashcan on the way back to the office.

Bryan placed the chocolate box and cellophane wrapping into a cardboard box and sealed it. On his way out of the hotel, he stopped off at the concierge desk and left it for the Ydrus operative. The man had promised to pick it up before five o'clock. He guaranteed the chocolate box would be resealed perfectly. No one would suspect it'd been tampered with. Bryan had already made the arrangements to retrieve the box on Friday.

Bryan reviewed his outline mentally as he walked back to Sterling-Bosch. It was ironclad. He'd been meticulous in the preparation. For a brief moment, he felt a twinge of regret about Sara. They would have made an unbeatable team. But there would be other opportunities ahead for him. Python had already hinted of a new partner. For Sara, there were no other chances. She'd arrived at the end of the line.

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Neal opted to call Chantal in the morning from his loft before leaving for work. It was early afternoon in Paris. He hoped to find her taking a break before the evening crowd. It was not a call he was looking forward to. Would she resent his questions?

Apparently not. Chantal was quite willing to discuss what had happened.

"Klaus told you I wanted to retire from safecracking and start a family, no? For many months beforehand, I'd considered leaving the business and going legit as you Americans would say. Don't take this the wrong way, but I think part of the reason I delayed was because you were there. I enjoyed our friendship, and you brought out the best in Klaus. After you left . . ." She paused and Neal could picture her making a Gallic shrug. "There was no longer any reason to delay. Klaus made no attempt to save our marriage. Now I wonder if he ever loved me."

"I regret I have to bring up these painful memories for you."

"I've already made peace with them. You asked if he was close with anyone and I'm afraid I really couldn't say. He traveled extensively that final year, as you know. I rarely knew why. I assumed some of the trips were for the family business. He maintained the front of working at his father's investment firm and advising wealthy clients. He didn't ask me to assist on jobs after you left but our relations were so poor, I'm sure he didn't trust me. Very possibly he was working with others, but I wouldn't know who they were."

"Did you ever hear him mention the words Ydrus or Python?" Neal spelled them out for her.

"What is an Ydrus? Is it a snake like the python?"

"In a sense. It's a criminal group which started in Eastern Europe."

"No, I can't remember he did, but I will share this with you." She took a sip of a beverage. "I believe there was someone else—a woman. I think that's why he didn't try harder to save our marriage."

The more Chantal talked about Klaus, the more Neal realized how little he'd known his true nature back then. It was a humbling feeling. "What led you to believe he was seeing someone else?"

"Oh, he was very clever. Never dropped any references—didn't call out her name in his sleep. But once when he returned from a trip and hadn't unpacked his suitcase, I opened it to remove his shirts for the dry cleaner. And there was a lingering fragrance of Shalimar. I suspect that was why he didn't fight me on the divorce and gave me a handsome settlement. Perhaps some would blame me for accepting his money, but I believe I'd earned it."

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

When Neal arrived at work he shared the information with Peter and Tricia. Neal wasn't surprised that there was another woman. Klaus prided himself on being a strategic thief. If he'd thought a woman would assist in obtaining his objective, he would have pursued her. He might have been seeking another safecracker to replace Chantal. In any case, the report was over two years old. What were the odds Klaus had maintained a relationship with her, and she felt strongly enough about him to now seek revenge? In Neal's view, so low as to not be worth considering.

Especially when there was something far more interesting to focus on. Jones's estimate of the warrant's arrival turned out to be accurate. Mozzie's backup plan with his rat wouldn't be necessary, after all.

At 10:30 a.m. the White Collar team was assembled in front of 32 Vanderbilt Plaza. The business magnate wasn't at home. The surveillance team reported he'd left at 8:45 a.m. to attend a Chamber of Commerce meeting which was scheduled to last several hours. Peter, Jones, and Diana would conduct the raid. They were taking no chances and had backup personnel in the unlikely event they encountered any opposition.

Neal didn't have to wait long in the van before Peter called him up. Meeting Neal at the door to the penthouse, he said, "One guard and a housekeeper. They offered no resistance. The guard called Longthorpe. I expect we'll see him shortly."

Neal walked into the palatial salon of the penthouse. Should Longthorpe be called Goldfinger? Everywhere he looked he saw gold. The Louis XV salon chairs had gold gilt frames, the marble columns topped with gold Corinthian capitals, the crystal chandeliers . . . It was all over-the-top French Rococo meets New York nouveau riche, with none of the delicate refinement of the true Rococo. The ostentatious splendor left him wanting to scrape off gold dust from his jacket.

But what immediately drew his attention were the murals. Murals on the walls, murals on the ceilings. As he walked through the penthouse, he even found murals in the bathroom. They were all executed in the style of Lemoyne. Longthorpe must fancy himself another Louis XV. The mural in the dining room was unfinished. Neal studied it at length. Peter came up to ask him about it.

"It has Hagen's brushwork technique. I wonder if he weren't the artist. It's been a puzzle for me why Hagen would spend so much time in New York. This must be the reason. I'm sure Longthorpe paid him handsomely."

"From what Hagen said, I don't think he liked Longthorpe very much," Peter commented. "Abused artist takes revenge on his patron?"

Neal shrugged. "It's happened before. Many artists had love-hate relationships with their patrons. Michelangelo flew into rages against Pope Julius II. I don't understand why Hagen didn't admit it. He spilled the beans on Longthorpe. Why not confess he was painting murals for him?"

"Perhaps he considered the murals beneath him? Hagen displays a pirate's swagger even when incarcerated. If he disliked Longthorpe, he may have wanted to disavow them."

Peter left to check on the other team members and Neal resumed his survey of the penthouse. Longthorpe's palace in the sky took up the entire top floor of the building and had five bedrooms. Somewhere there had to be at least one safe.

Neal searched all the obvious locations: bedrooms, behind paintings, in closets, under floorboards and carpeting, but came up blank. With the elimination of the standard locations, now the fun began. He wished Mozzie could have been there to join in. It was inconceivable Longthorpe didn't have a safe. If he'd been smart, he would have installed a safe in an obvious location and placed a few items inside as a decoy. A man who engaged in such grandiose gestures in his interior decorating wouldn't have settled for something tiny. Longthorpe was the U.S. head of Ydrus. He'd want something befitting of his status.

Neal strode into the study. If he'd been a bloodhound, he'd be pointing. Longthorpe could have been more devious but he doubted it. Neal found Travis working on Longthorpe's computer in his study. This was one room which had a more restrained use of gold. The walls were paneled in walnut. The ceiling was painted with a sky mural. One wall had floor-to-ceiling bookcases. Neal examined the bookcase construction. The seam had been well concealed. Excellent construction. He'd give the carpenters points. But it couldn't escape a bloodhound. Neal started pulling the books out of the bookcase.

Travis looked up. "You think he's hiding something in the books?"

"No. They're just ornaments. This is what we want." He pointed to the electronic lock and opened his bag for Gert. Turning it on, he placed it next to the lock.

Travis walked over, his nose twitching with curiosity. "What device is that?"

Neal smiled as he finessed the settings. Gert was about the size of a thin paperback and equipped with multiple dials. Some of the dials were meant to foil any unauthorized use. It really had been Mozzie's finest invention. "This is a Mozzie original. And sorry, that's all I can tell you. You'll have to ask him about it."

Travis laughed. "I know how successful I'll be."

Neal entered the code and pulled on the bookcase. It opened up to reveal the room inside. Travis stared at it wide-eyed. "Peter has to be here for this."

Neal didn't mind waiting. He stood back and let Peter have the honor of entering first. He and Travis followed. The room was narrow and compact. A computer workstation and printer were on a long narrow table which served as a desk. Travis immediately sat down and set to work. But Neal's attention was drawn to the large wall safe. The door was six feet tall and three feet wide.

"Can you open it?" Peter demanded.

"State of the art, reinforced titanium. Six-cylinder. Probably three false gates. I'll need a few minutes."

Peter smiled as Neal got out his stethoscope. "The doctor, I take it, is in the house?"

"Yes, and he's ready to perform surgery."

As Neal worked, he heard muffled voices. Longthorpe must have arrived. His voice at first was barely audible but quickly turned loud and venomous. He probably caught sight of the open door in the bookcase. His protests were of course met with derision. Neal could hear Jones and Diana ordering him to sit in the salon. So far no one had found anything to use against Longthorpe. Travis was copying the files off his computer but Neal was counting on the safe to provide the evidence they needed.

Peter walked up to stand beside him when Neal pulled open the safe door. Inside were several shelves filled with documents, jewelry boxes, and cash, but what immediately caught Neal's attention was one item by itself on the middle shelf.

Peter leaned forward to take a closer look. "It's the Raphael drawing!"

Travis came over to watch as Neal reverentially slid his hands under _Head of a Young Apostle_ and pulled it out of the safe. "You think it's genuine?"

Neal laid the drawing on the desk and pulled out his jeweler's loupe. He'd never examined it but he'd seen the original of the Raphael drawing which was displayed in his niche at the lab. "It will need to be analyzed, but my instinct is telling me yes."

**Sterling-Bosch Headquarters. April 26, 2005. Tuesday afternoon.**

_That went well_ , Sara thought, breathing a small sigh of relief as she turned off the projector in the conference room.

Sara considered procedural reviews a necessary evil best performed by someone else. When Mr. Bosch requested she lead a discussion of the new authentication procedures, she'd bribed herself by shopping for a new dress for the occasion. The presentation had gone so well she promised herself to make that a tradition for all similar events.

Now she felt like celebrating. A group of colleagues were going to the local watering hole. They'd asked her to come along and under normal circumstances she would have. One slight problem. Bryan had also been asked, and that made it decidedly awkward.

She'd heard that he arrived in town over the weekend. They had a couple of chance encounters in the hallways. He was playing it cool—well, frigid was the better term—but to his credit, he was civil. When she broke up with him the weekend before, his frigid politeness was hard to take. It would have been so much easier if he'd been more emotional. Lord knows she was. She'd been agonizing over the decision for weeks and what would be the best way to soften the blow. She shouldn't have bothered.

How could she have ever fallen for someone who was such a cold fish? It was humbling and humiliating. Afterward she'd vented to Fiona for an hour on the phone about it. She needed to send Fiona a thank you gift for being so understanding.

Sara looked at her watch. Four o'clock. It was unfortunate Paris was so many hours in advance. She'd call Fiona the next day to report on her new formula for how to succeed in presentations without really trying.

Well, there was always room service. She'd order something extravagant off the menu and binge-watch the American TV programs she'd been missing out on. Her work for the day was done. She knew Bryan was slated to lead a discussion with senior investigators on mentoring junior employees. It was probably still going on. If she left now, she could avoid another awkward encounter.

The Monday morning session had been painful enough. A colleague had suggested they go out to dinner on Friday. Bryan was standing next to her. She was glad she could beg off, using Neal's reception as an excuse.

Sara closed the doors of the now empty conference room and started down the hallway when she heard voices and rapid footsteps. That sounded like Peter. Why would he be here? Her eyes widened as she saw him advance in rapid strides toward the conference room where Bryan was holding his seminar. Mr. Bosch was accompanying him as well as Jones, Diana, and one other agent she didn't recognize. Peter's eyes flicked over Sara as they passed but he gave no other acknowledgment of her. Mr. Bosch opened the conference room doors and they walked inside. Sara and a few other colleagues stood in the hallway, exchanging confused looks.

She could hear Bryan speaking when the doors were opened but then dead silence. Peter's voice rang through the stunned room as he placed Bryan under arrest for conspiracy in larceny and fraud. The fifteen or so people sitting around the table watched in shocked silence as Bryan was led out in handcuffs. Peter and the other agents walked out with them, closing the doors behind them. Mr. Bosch remained behind, probably to address what had happened to the investigators.

Peter stopped to speak with her while the others led Bryan off. "Is there some place we can talk?" he asked. His brown eyes were looking at her with sympathy.

She nodded mutely and led him to a huddle room down the corridor. Fortunately no one was using it.

Sara's thoughts were in turmoil. Yes, Bryan had been on the list of names with knowledge both of Rinaldi and of the Raphael drawing. Still . . . She'd almost accepted his proposal. Believed she knew who he was, what kind of man he was. Apparently she didn't know him at all.

They both sat down at the round table in the huddle room.

"Bryan's the mole?" she asked. Dumb question, but she needed to hear him confirm it.

He nodded. "The evidence all points to him. We recovered the Raphael drawing this morning."

"You did?" she blurted. "Where?"

"In a safe in the penthouse of Duncan Longthorpe."

"Duncan Longthorpe, the business magnate?"

"That's right," Peter said, "and also the presumptive leader of U.S. operations for Ydrus. We raided his home this morning and found a secret room. It contained not only the safe with the drawing inside but also the computer he used for Ydrus operations. Bryan was named in the files. He'd been supplying Ydrus with information about Sterling-Bosch clients and their valuables." He paused. "Sara, I have to ask some questions of a personal nature. I assume I can count on your cooperation."

"Of course," she said automatically, her mind still in shock.

"Did Bryan ever ask you about Max Rinaldi? The period in question is January 21 through February 6."

Sara pulled out her cell phone to reference her calendar. "I met with your team on January 21 and returned to New York on January 25. Bryan was traveling as I recall. He and I discussed the Corot forgery but not Rinaldi. I only found out about Rinaldi when you and I talked on the phone on February 1. Bryan was out of town then. I saw him on the following Saturday, February 5." She stopped, her thoughts going back to that weekend. The details returned in stark and painful detail. "I can tell you almost everything that occurred. Bryan took me out to dinner on Saturday evening and he proposed."

"Did you give him an answer?"

"No. I told him I needed time to think it over. I stayed overnight in his flat but the Corot case didn't come up." She hesitated, chewing her lip. "I assume you don't need non-relevant details?"

"No diagrams, please," Peter said with a sympathetic smile. "We can skip to the next morning."

Sara considered for a moment. "We discussed my assignment with Weatherby's review panel and how I'd be in New York for three weeks. That's when he told me about Neal's history and warned me to be circumspect around him. At first I thought Bryan was simply jealous but then he told me about the Interpol files . . . I can remember how upset I was that Neal wasn't who I thought he was . . . God." She rested her head on her propped up arm, too staggered to continue. She'd done it again. First she'd berated herself for being deceived by Neal. Now she'd completely misjudged Bryan.

"Sara?" Peter prompted. "Do you remember discussing the case with Bryan?"

She forced herself to focus. "We started to talk about work. I thought at the time that Bryan was simply being considerate. He must have noticed how much his revelation upset me. I'm fairly sure I asked him if he'd heard of Max Rinaldi. You remember, you'd asked me to check on Rinaldi."

"I know. I'm not blaming you. Bryan was a senior investigator. It would have been natural to consult with him. What happened afterwards?"

"I got dressed and we had breakfast. Afterward I returned to my flat."

"So, to confirm. Bryan was aware that Max Rinaldi was a suspect on Sunday morning."

"Yes, but I knew nothing about the Lynx Resort." Peter asked her if she knew anything else that might be relevant to the investigation, but she didn't. He must have realized she was still having a hard time processing what had occurred because he left shortly afterward, asking her to contact him if she remembered anything else.

When Peter left, Sara remained in the huddle room. As she analyzed her emotions, she was humbled that she hadn't identified Bryan as the mole. Outrage and humiliation were both seething inside her. But sympathy for Bryan? Grief over his arrest? Hardly. It staggered her how fast her feelings for him had shriveled away and died. Had she ever been in love with him? How could she have been? He was a stranger. Had he worn a mask the entire time?

 

* * *

**_Notes_ ** _: Bryan may be arrested but the team better not let their guard down. The action takes a turn for the worse in Chapter 7: Caffrey in the Clouds._

_Origami was featured in the canon series and it's a tradition Penna and I have enjoyed continuing. Recently Azathoth has also taken an interest in it as a psychological tool to manipulate Neal and Peter. I've written about the many folds of origami for our blog this week. Penna wrote about the origins of the hospital game for her post this week. In a couple of weeks that game will be making an appearance in this story._

_Some of you may think Sara should have realized about Bryan earlier. The older, canon version of Sara probably would have. But the Sara in our AU is younger and less experienced._

_Thanks for reading and thanks to the awesome Penna for her beta assistance with this chapter!_

**_Blog_ ** _: Penna Nomen & Silbrith Conversation: _ [ _www.pennasilbrithconversation.blogspot.com_ ](http://www.pennasilbrithconversation.blogspot.com) _  
_ **_Chapter Visuals and Music_ ** _: The Raphael's Dragon board on the Caffrey Conversation Pinterest website:_ [ _www.pinterest.com/caffreycon_ ](http://www.pinterest.com/caffreycon)


	7. Caffrey in the Clouds

**Federal Building. April 27, 2005. Wednesday morning.**

"McKenzie protests he's innocent. He refuses to cooperate and claims he was set up."

At Peter's words, Neal didn't attempt to suppress his contempt. The other team members were equally scornful. Peter had called the meeting midmorning to give an update on the interrogation. Bryan wasn't the type to fall on the sword, but did he actually think anyone would believe him?

"With the sums of money we've found invested in his Swiss bank account," Jones noted, "he'll have a difficult time convincing a jury of that."

Peter shook his head. "I'd hold off on making any bets. We questioned him about the account and he asserted it contained small amounts of money he used for investments. When we confronted him with the statements provided by the bank, he insisted the money had been planted to make him look guilty. Not only that. He fingered Sara as the culprit."

"That's ridiculous," Neal sputtered.

Peter shot him a warning look. "Tricia and I agree, but he made a compelling case. He claims she had access to his bank account and his password. He insists she directed Ydrus to make the transfers. Fortunately the evidence from Longthorpe is so compelling that I believe we'll prevail in the end, but McKenzie will hire an excellent lawyer. His acting skills are formidable. Look at how he fooled Sara for all these months. I predict he'll play the part of the innocent victim to perfection."

"He'll claim Sara used him rather than the other way around," Diana added. "She'll have to take the stand. The defense will try to portray her in the worst possible light."

As Neal listened to them discuss how Bryan could manipulate the system, he thought of Mozzie's paranoia. It suddenly seemed much more justified. "Could Sara be charged?" he asked.

"I don't think so," Peter said. "She knew nothing about the owner of the Raphael drawing and there's nothing about her in the evidence provided by Longthorpe."

"But McKenzie could sow enough doubts in the minds of jurors that he'll escape with a reduced sentence or even acquittal," Jones cautioned.

"Tricia suspects that McKenzie had made his plans in advance," Peter added. "His answers are too polished."

What must Sara be going through? She'd been in love with the guy. There'd probably been a few cinders still smoldering even though she said she was over him. Neal recalled how he felt when he discovered Kate was acting on Adler's orders and had never been in love with him. At least Kate hadn't attempted to frame him.

"Sara's coming in this morning to provide sworn testimony on when McKenzie learned about Rinaldi. John Hobhouse is coordinating the search of his London office, flat, and personal computer." Peter turned to Travis. "Anything show up on his work computer?"

"Not yet, but Jones and I've made progress on Longthorpe's. We've now acquired a substantial amount of data from monitoring Karl Huber's communications. By correlating it with Longthorpe's, we're able to piece together a better picture of Ydrus."

"Huber's been in Greece with his family on a vacation," Jones said. "We contacted Interpol about him yesterday. I heard back this morning that the Greek authorities were prepared to serve arrest papers on him."

Peter nodded with satisfaction. "We should have sufficient evidence from Longthorpe's files to successfully prosecute Huber on arms smuggling."

Jones pulled up a diagram on his laptop and projected it onto the screen. "This is the Ydrus hierarchy that we've been able to fill in so far. At the top is the leader with the code name of _Python._ Hagen told us his code name was _Savu_."

"You can fill in two more of those squares," Peter said. "This morning Longthorpe admitted his code name is _Ringed_ and McKenzie's is _Rock_. Longthorpe didn't initially cooperate but when he heard the evidence we'd already acquired from his computer, he's changed his tune. He, like Hagen, is in fear of his life. Apparently he violated Ydrus's rules by including names in some of his correspondence. That's how we were able to learn about McKenzie and we've also found Rinaldi's name mentioned in transactions. Longthorpe is begging for protection. He's waived bail consideration and instead wants a secure location. In return for a change of identity and reduced sentence, he's offered to reveal all he knows."

"Hughes authorized the highest level of data confidentiality," Travis added. "All the information we're acquiring is being held on White Collar's restricted access server."

"Longthorpe has already confirmed three other regional leaders, located in China, Russia, and South Africa," Jones said, indicating the squares.

"There could be several others," Diana noted. "We have eleven different code names. We've listed them to the right on the diagram Jones has up. For most of them we don't know what their role is."

"Based on the email correspondence, we believe Huber is _Bismarck_ ," Travis added. "The leader in China is likely called _Spotted_."

"Longthorpe said the codes were only for the higher level members, but he never met any of them," Peter said. "With the exclusion of McKenzie and Hagen, he only dealt with the lower levels. He knows Python is a woman, but he's never met her or talked with her on the phone. He also confirmed Hagen's assertion that Hagen didn't steal the Raphael. Longthorpe admitted to Tricia that he commissioned the thefts of both _St. George and the Dragon_ and the Raphael drawing by contacting Python. He received the works through a lower level courier whom we're attempting to track down but doesn't know who Python used to commit the thefts."

"So he's our Raphael collector?" Neal asked.

Peter nodded. "He commissioned _St. George and the Dragon_ the same way. Ydrus persuaded him he could make a substantial profit by allowing them to sell forgeries off it. The picture that's emerging from our interrogation is that Longthorpe principally served as a money launderer and bankroller for Ydrus."

Diana put down her pen. "That means that some other master thief is working the Eastern Seaboard. Before we assumed it was Hagen, but if we're to believe Longthorpe, Ydrus is using other thieves."

Jones turned to Neal. "Anyone come to mind?"

Neal shook his head. "Keller's in prison. There may be some new European players I'm not familiar with. Ydrus probably has several art thieves in their stable." He turned to Jones. "Here's another data point for you—Ydrus doesn't appear to be in league with Adler."

"Why do you say that?" Peter asked.

"I talked with Henry about Longthorpe yesterday evening. It turns out he's a Win-Win client. He was helping to fund their search for Adler. Henry was scheduled to meet with him yesterday afternoon and wondered why he didn't show."

Diana snorted. "Small world."

"Ain't it just," Neal said with a grin. "If Longthorpe's bankrolling Win-Win, he's obviously not cooperating with Adler too." He turned to Peter. "Does he know anything about a mole at the FBI?"

"Nothing beyond what Hagen told us," Peter said, shaking his head. "He's heard there is someone. Python once commented in an email that Longthorpe didn't have to worry about interference in his operations. Apparently, Longthorpe wasn't involved in instigating thefts. Because of his financial importance he was given the title of U.S. head, but he was more a figurehead than a crime boss. He acknowledged he'd been the one who called Rinaldi at the Lynx Resort. He's willing to testify that McKenzie contacted him to warn Rinaldi that we were on to him. That reason alone is enough in my book to make him a deal and grant him the extra protection, but D.C.'s in charge of the decision."

"We're still processing his computer files," Travis added, "but have already discovered that he maintained detailed records of his money laundering activities throughout the three years he's been working for Ydrus. One item that leaped out at me this morning was the Vermeer painting that Klaus Mansfeld commissioned Neal to forge."

"Ydrus was involved with that?" Neal blurted, startled.

Travis nodded. "So far, along with McKenzie, that's been the biggest takeaway for me. Longthorpe had made preliminary arrangements to launder a large sum of money which had been tagged as proceeds from the sale of the _Woman in Blue_."

"This is the first hard evidence we have that Mansfeld was working with Ydrus," Jones noted, "and it also confirms that Ydrus was most likely using Azathoth's malware. Neal had discovered that Mansfeld was using Azathoth's software last fall. What we don't know is how long Mansfeld was working for Ydrus. He could have been a recent recruit. Neal mentioned Mansfeld planning to establish a base of operations in New York. Was that at the instigation of Ydrus?"

Travis's revelation was stunning. Neal knew Klaus was secretive, but it was still surprising he hadn't mentioned anything to Neal. In the fall, Klaus had pressured him to join his crew. He hadn't said a word about Ydrus. Would he ever have told Neal? What else had he kept secret?

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Neal saw Sara briefly when she arrived later in the morning to give her formal statement about Bryan, but they didn't speak. Peter met her at the elevator bank and escorted her into the conference room where Tricia also joined them. Neal felt for her. This wasn't the same Sara as the week before. She looked like someone who needed a friend.

Neal worked at his desk in the bullpen while she was interviewed. When she exited the conference room, he offered to take her to lunch.

Neal thought about recommending the Bangkok Inn. They'd gone there often last fall, but that had been around the time Sara had been transferred to London and she told him she was dating Bryan. It would probably bring up too many memories for both of them. "How about Malaga Tapas where we went last January? You liked the paella as I recall."

"I did. I said it was my new comfort food, and I could use some of that now," she admitted.

It wasn't long before they were sitting at a table with a steaming platter of paella between them, and a bottle of white rioja to share. "The only consolation is that we'd already split up, but I don't know if I can ever forgive myself for being so gullible," she said glumly.

"You were in love. That doesn't make you the most objective. Take it from me. I'm an expert on how love can keep you from thinking clearly."

"You're referring to Kate?"

He nodded. "I was head over heels. I made excuses, misread signals. It wasn't my finest moment."

"Fiona was telling me pretty much the same thing. She and I talked last night, and she opened up about her failed romance when she was at university in the U.K. I was hoping I'd escape the curse, but I should have known better."

"If it helps, I'm a firm believer in everyone being allowed one period of insanity. I had mine—and not just with Kate. Your period of insanity doesn't begin to compare to mine."

For a moment the old sassy Sara reemerged. "Sorry, fella. I win this round. Need I point out Kate wasn't a crook?"

Neal smiled but said nothing. He'd never told Sara about Kate's background. He couldn't go into much detail without revealing he'd been a crook alongside her.

Sara tore off a piece of bread and dipped it in olive oil. "Bryan will be arraigned this afternoon. He'll be charged with being an accessory to burglary, insurance fraud, and embezzlement. He'll probably have no trouble making bail." She exhaled. "I spent the past week worrying how he'd handle our breakup. I was blaming myself for not having called it off earlier. I knew we weren't right for each other and should have turned him down immediately."

"And now what are you feeling?"

"Like the biggest sap in the world," she admitted bitterly. "He played me, took advantage of me. When I think I was the one who told him about Rinaldi. You and Peter nearly died because of that . . ." She stopped, chewing her lip.

"You didn't know," Neal said quietly.

"I've been such an idiot."

Neal chuckled. "In my experience that goes hand in hand with the period of insanity I mentioned earlier. I won't tell you not to beat yourself up over it. I don't think it's possible, and maybe a tiny amount of self-flagellation can be helpful." He'd done his share over Kate and Keller.

"Do you know what that jerk's saying now? He claims that I'm the mole and planted evidence to frame him." She stopped to wince. "You probably already know."

"It's healthier to talk about your frustrations rather than bottling them up inside. That's what Noelle, Henry's mom, would say."

"When I worked at Win-Win, I held her up as a role model."

"I admire her tremendously too, but she had to come to terms with learning the truth about her ex-husband. Bryan's a crook but he didn't kill anyone. Robert tried to murder his own son and had both Henry and Angela kidnapped. Noelle will be at the reception on Friday. You're still coming, aren't you?"

She hesitated. "After everything's that gone on, are you sure you want the Scarlet Woman? Perhaps I should wear a scarlet _S_ on my lapel, _S_ standing for sap."

Neal chuckled. "If you insist on wearing a letter, I'd make it an _H_ for being human. Richard, Aidan, Keiko, and I will all be walking around with scarlet _A_ 's on our chests, _A_ standing for anxious. You'll fit right in."

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

When Neal returned to work, he stopped in the breakroom for a cup of coffee. Jones and Travis were sitting at the table, remnants of their lunch beside them.

"Practicing your Klingon?" Neal asked.

Travis frowned and shook his head. "That's a sore subject. Jones hasn't kept up with his lessons."

The uncooperative Klingon shrugged. "I may pick it up again, but it's no longer relevant to my work."

Jones had become interested in _Star Trek_ strategy games during the sci-fi convention when he went undercover as a Klingon. If he'd abandoned sci-fi, that could mean only one thing. "Which Nazi game are you playing?"

"My money's on _Wolfenstein,_ " Travis said, "or is _Blitzkrieg_ more your style?"

"None of the above," Jones replied, looking inordinately pleased with himself. " _Silent Hunter_."

As Travis broke into a laugh, Neal pulled up a chair. "Details, please."

"You may call me Lieutenant Commander now. And before you start teasing me, remember that you provided the inspiration. You told me the little guy insists on getting into the mind of your enemy. _Silent Hunter III_ was released in March and I've already earned three Iron Crosses. You wait and see—knowledge of U-boat operations may be essential to catch Adler."

Neal grinned. "Just wait till Mozzie hears. You two should start playing against each other."

He thought Jones would blow him out of the water, but instead Jones was intrigued. "Not a bad idea. There are several multiplayer modes. Travis will want to join in as well. We could set up tournaments, —"

"Before you get carried away," Neal interrupted. "Mozzie would never meet you here, not even to beat you at a video game."

"I doubt strongly he'd emerge victorious," Jones retorted. "He has no background in naval exercises or submarine tactics. Besides, he doesn't need to come in. We could play online."

"We could set up a corner of the lab for gaming," Travis said. "If Diana can write fan fiction to take down Azathoth, I don't see why we can't engage in a little gaming to thwart Adler."

Peter might have a different opinion, but Neal wasn't going to dunk their plans in cold water. Neal was already picturing Mozzie walking around in a U-boat commander uniform, which, all things considered, might be safer than his latest obsession for Sherlock Holmes.

The ringing of Travis's cell phone interrupted their brainstorming. Neal watched Travis as he listened, his eyebrows shooting up. He glanced over at them. "It's Aidan. Azathoth uploaded his malware onto the Met server, and Aidan's program caught it."

This was the moment they'd been waiting for. Planning for _Silent Hunter_ was shelved as they initiated the procedure which had already been negotiated with the Met. Travis contacted museum officials to confirm they'd also received the notification and were on alert status. Security programs were routed through a backup software program which had not been infected while the infected software was in effect quarantined. Although to Azathoth the programs would appear to function normally, they were in fact off-grid. Currently Azathoth's malware was lying in a dormant state. Once the activation signal was sent to the malware, the trackers in Aidan's program would bind themselves to the signal in a cyber-version of Tuesday Tails.

The Met was prepared to issue a release about a routine security upgrade when the malware was activated. They hoped to keep Azathoth in the dark for as long as possible that they were onto him. Aidan had warned that it might take multiple attempts to pinpoint the exact location of the signal.

Before leaving for the day, Neal touched base with Peter in his office. "Would you like me to come in to work tomorrow?"

Peter smiled and shook his head. "I appreciate the gesture, but that won't be necessary. You'd already scheduled the day off."

"That was before Azathoth made his move."

"We'll manage. If anything comes up, I know where to find you." He gave him a pointed look. "I don't want to go to the reception tomorrow and see your paintings hanging crooked."

"No chance of that," he said, but he knew Azathoth would be on his mind while he installed his works. Was that baroque lion pendant connected in some way to Azathoth's current plan? Tricia's words came back to him as he started to leave.

Peter picked up on his unease. "Sit down. What's troubling you? The Met job?"

"That's part of it. Which thieves are working with Ydrus? We know Klaus and Hagen worked for them. Who's taken their place? If there one thief who specializes in East Coast heists or several? But that's not all. When I worked with Klaus in the fall, he went to great lengths to paint the exciting future I had in store by going back to work with him. He never mentioned Ydrus. Why not?"

"You said he only divulged information on a need to know basis."

"Yeah, but it still makes me wonder."

"Wonder what?"

"That's just it," Neal admitted with a huff. "I don't know what I'm wondering about, but something doesn't feel right."

Peter exhaled. "Your gut's talking to you. I knew I recognized that look. I'll mention it to Tricia, but in the meantime, you need to relax. Think about your art, not your job. Work can wait till Monday. Focus on being Neal Caffrey, New York's next art sensation, and nothing else. That's an order."

**Miriam and Ira D. Wallach Art Gallery, Columbia University. April 29, 2005. Friday morning.**

"Did you bring a level?" Richard asked, looking more hassled than Aidan, and Neal had thought Aidan was about as stressed as it got. "One of my sculpture pedestals looks slanted to me. I can see it now. Just as the guests arrive, the sculpture will slide off and smash into smithereens."

The three of them had arrived early in the morning at the art gallery in Schermerhorn Hall. Handling the installation themselves was one of the requirements for the exhibition. The professors decreed it essential that students experience the thrill of having things go wrong at the last minute. Some of the glitches made Neal suspicious that the professors planned some of the "unexpected" emergencies in advance. But a tilted pedestal? No, not even Professor Stockman would be that cruel.

Neal walked over with Richard to inspect the problematic pedestal, and as expected, it wasn't the pedestal but Richard who was askew. "Deep breaths," he advised, "and please don't tell me, you've decided to switch out one of your pieces."

"Could I?" Richard asked, his eyes lighting up. "I was thinking that wombat-looking creature could be—"

"Not allowed," Neal said firmly. "The catalogs are already printed. Stockman would have your hide if you changed anything now."

"Neal! Over here!" Aidan called out. "I need your critical eye. Should the backdrop go to the right or left of the stand?"

Neal was an old hand at controlling stress. Glitches were a part of every con. Aidan was prepared for equipment failure but not for the aesthetic requirements of video installations. And Richard? Well, base case, he was a worrywart. He'd already been stressing for the past month, but that didn't make him any calmer today. In Richard's defense, his mother was flying up from New Orleans for the reception. It was her first time to meet Travis who'd confessed to Neal how anxious he was to make a good impression. Their nerves were whipping each other to new heights of frenzied agitation.

Neal was not concerned by so many of his relatives being present. No one could be a tougher critic than Myra Stockman, his visual arts advisor. Henry probably wouldn't think much of his paintings, but then his idea of art was a poster of a rock musician on the wall.

Neal's works were simple to install. He paused for a moment to savor the irony of hanging paintings on a gallery wall rather than stealing them. That was a joke for private consumption. His installation was going so smoothly, he had ample time to help Richard, Aidan, and Keiko. He'd even checked in with Peter at work.

Midmorning, Henry called. Angela was giving the family a tour of the university campus that day and Henry hoped to sneak off with their grandfather Edmund to spend a little quality time with Neal. Edmund had made a special request.

Neal grinned when he heard what Dor wanted to do. Neal had considered making the offer, but he didn't think it was particularly wise for a former ambassador in his eighties to attempt. Guess he was wrong.

Neal gave Henry directions to a rendezvous spot at the north end of the campus. Richard and Aidan could manage without him. Neal promised to bring them back lunch and give them a full report.

"Do you need any gear?" Aidan asked. "I have some extra equipment in my car. It's parked in a garage not far from where you're meeting."

"I'm taking them mainly on the legal routes, but my grandfather would probably love a headlamp, thanks."

When Neal met Henry and Edmund outside Mudd Hall, Edmund waved at him like he was a kid. To look at him and Henry, it was difficult to decide which one looked more mischievous.

Neal put on his stern face first. "Are you sure we can let Henry in on this, Dor? Henry doesn't attend Columbia. It's not code."

"Special dispensation will be granted for this occurrence only with this proviso: he must be escorted at all times by both of us." Edmund pronounced the terms in his gravest tones as if he were negotiating a ceasefire. "Don't let your guard down. You remember hearing about how he wandered off when I took him into the tunnels last time? He wound up in an illegal area. I thought my goose was cooked. Then he was only five. Now he'll be much harder to find."

Henry listened to them impatiently. "Um-hm. You've had your fun. We only have a few minutes to play hooky before we need to meet the others for lunch. If we're late, Angela will deep-fry both of us. Where are we going?"

"The inner sanctum, the shrine of all Columbia spelunkers," Neal said, leading the way. The route he'd selected was easy to navigate. He could point out some of the off-limit access areas along the way.

"I haven't been to the Signature Room since the 1960s when I attended a reunion," Edmund said. "Back in my student days it didn't exist."

"Is that when you added your signature?" Neal asked.

"Who me? I deny any knowledge of it," he said, looking inordinately pleased.

"If I point it out, will you confirm it?"

"We'll see, boyo."

Soon they were in the rocky nook. Henry shrugged. "What's the big deal? Looks like a wall of graffiti."

Edmund shook his head, rolling his eyes. "In that case, you won't mind taking our photo."

"Wait till Henry's found your signature," Neal advised in a loud whisper. "Then he can take our picture in front of it."

Edmund grinned. "Are you sure you discovered it?"

Neal whispered in his ear and he nodded with satisfaction. That sent Henry on a chase to find it. "While you're looking, see if you can spot mine," Neal added.

It took Henry five minutes to find Edmund's "E.C." It had taken Neal less than half the time. His own signature proved more difficult. Both Edmund and Henry searched among the hundreds of signatures. Finally Henry said, "This has to be it. It's the most artistic of the lot, but you could have been a little less cryptic."

He called Edmund over to examine the series of blue calligraphic flourishes Neal had chosen to be his tag. "What's that supposed to be?" Edmund asked. "The tail reminds me of the way I wrote my _C_ but you've lost me on the rest of it."

"I'm glad you noticed the tail. That was deliberate. The design represents a speeding cloud, moving so fast no one can catch up with it."

"Caffrey in the clouds," Edmund said, smiling. "You chose well. You know what your name means, don't you?"

Neal shook his head. "I know it's Irish, but I'm embarrassed to say I've never looked it up."

"You should have. It has quite a pedigree. Neal is the Americanized version of Niall, which is derived from the Old Irish word for cloud. It can also mean passionate or champion. Two famous Irish kings of the Dark Ages were named Niall."

"I didn't know you were such an expert on the language."

"I'm not. I've forgotten almost all the Irish I once knew. Too many years have passed. But your mother Meredith loved the old tales and myths of Ireland. She chose your name. She wanted to call you Niall but your father talked her out of it. He claimed it sounded too highfalutin for a cop." Edmund's face softened. "Your mom was a fair colleen. She could never hear enough of King Arthur, Merlin, and the Knights of the Round Table. I used to call her my Guinevere."

Edmund's words gave Neal pause. He'd heard very few stories of what his mother was like as a child. It had slipped his mind how she used to read him tales of King Arthur and his knights. His first sword was a plastic one that he used to fight imaginary dragons. It was fitting Diana had dragons flying around in Arkham Files. He should give Neal Carter some pointers on slaying them.

Edmund turned to Henry. "Your mom didn't have any interest in the old fairy tales. She liked modern stories—Nancy Drew, and others I can't remember. At story hour it was a challenge satisfying them both."

"Who was Henry named after?" Neal asked.

Edmund looked around conspiratorially. "Very few know the truth. Robert thought she chose Henry to honor his grandfather, but actually she named you after one of her favorite movie characters."

"Who?" Henry demanded.

"Henry Gondorff from _The Sting_."

Neal chuckled. "Paul Newman's character. That sounds right. You realize that makes me Robert Redford."

"Is that so?" Henry said. "As I recall, Gondorff taught your character everything he needed to know and was his superior in all things. Just remember that, kid, and we'll get along fine."

Neal handed him a red marker. "You like making a bold statement. Care to add your signature to the wall?"

Henry grinned and took the marker from him, scrawling _H.G._ next to Neal's cloud.

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Bryan entered the Duane Reade drugstore and strolled over to the magazine rack. No one was looking at magazines. It was three o'clock. His contact should have already been here. Bryan scanned the magazine rack impatiently and picked up a copy of _Black Belt_. As he leafed through the pages, he considered his options. He didn't like them. He no longer had access to Sara's schedule. This was his one shot. Rescheduling was out of the question.

Approaching footsteps. He turned his head to see a middle-aged man wearing a Los Angeles Dodgers track jacket and red running shoes stand next to him. Bryan exhaled in relief. "What took you so long?"

"Relax. I'm here, ain't I?" He reached for a sports magazine.

"You got the package?"

He nodded. "I'll meet you by the phone booth outside in five minutes. We'll do the exchange there. No surveillance cameras around to record us."

"Agreed."

The man returned the magazine to the rack and strolled off. Bryan stilled his nerves. He'd soon have the last piece. Sara's meeting was scheduled to last till four o'clock. Last day of the week. Colleagues would linger to chat. It would be four thirty at the earliest before she'd return to the room. Plenty of time to slip into her hotel room, using the duplicate key he'd obtained. He should send a note of appreciation to Ydrus for the suitcase they'd supplied him with. If the police had discovered the secret compartment, it would have been all over. Ydrus had come through for him. Made the arrangements for bail. Provided the lawyer. Clearly they appreciated his value. A few more weeks, the unpleasantness of the past few days would be behind him and his position within the organization would be even more secure.

Bryan used the waiting time to review his next actions. Once in Sara's room, he'd make a call to the concierge using the recorded message he'd prepared of her voice. The concierge would see the room number on her phone and hear Sara's voice. There was no way it could be traced back to him.

It was so simple and so efficient. All the concierge had to do was arrange for the package to be delivered the next morning at eight o'clock. It was a routine courtesy service. No flags would be raised. Bryan could drop off the package anytime that evening when the concierge stepped away from her desk.

Nothing could go wrong. In a few weeks Sterling-Bosch would be begging for him to return and Sara would be sitting in prison.

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Peter arrived an hour early to the art gallery in Schermerhorn Hall, having caught a lift over with Travis. El would drive the Taurus to Columbia later in the afternoon. During the ride, Peter had pondered what to tell Neal, and he still hadn't decided. The news could easily wait. Neal wouldn't be involved in the investigation and Peter didn't want to distract him.

On the other hand, they'd both been working on being more open with each other. And when Neal eventually learned about it, he could rightfully give Peter grief for not having told him earlier.

The food service personnel were preparing the buffet tables when Travis and Peter arrived. Cocktails and snacks were being provided for the reception. The exhibition appeared ready with no signs of panicked artists doing last minute adjustments. The students, many of whom Peter recognized from visiting Neal in his studio, were standing around looking nervous.

Richard, Keiko, and Aidan were over by Aidan's video gallery. Keiko had managed to persuade Aidan to wear a suit for the occasion. It was the first time Peter had ever seen him in one. Richard had reduced his scruff to only one day's worth of growth, a major improvement in Peter's view. The video gallery had a special darkened viewing area with a few benches for seating. Aidan was presenting multiple videos at the exhibition which were being shown at separate stations. Each station came equipped with headsets for the visitors.

Richard's sculptures were near Aidan's. Peter smiled at the humorous poster Richard had made about his galactic zoo. Travis had spent most of the drive talking about those sculptures. Richard had organized the zoo around a backdrop of extraterrestrial landscapes he'd painted. It made Peter feel like he was back at the sci-fi convention to see them. In addition to the zoo, Richard had several other sculptures. Peter was looking forward to viewing them all, but he had a higher priority at the moment.

He found Neal standing near his paintings in another section of the gallery. As expected, he looked the most dapper of all the students there in a sharp charcoal suit that would cause El to make noises about the need for Peter to upgrade his wardrobe. Neal was talking with a man by a side table. Peter could only see his back but he recognized the burly shape of Neal's advisor, Ivan Sherkov. When Neal spotted Peter, he waved him over.

"Impeccable timing, my friend!" Sherkov boomed as he pumped his hand exuberantly. His face appeared ruddier than normal. "I was getting ready to open the vodka." Crushing Neal in a one-arm bear hug, he said, "Allow me to introduce Neal Caffrey, PhD student in Art History."

"Congratulations! When did you find out?"

"Just now," he said with a dazed grin on his face. "Vanya said they called him up an hour ago. I'd convinced myself they'd reject me."

"Bah, I told you it'd go through." Sherkov unzipped a small insulated bag and pulled out three shot glasses. Unscrewing a stainless steel thermos, he filled the glasses to the top. Handing a glass to Peter, he said with a wink, "I believe in being prepared. Ice-cold pepper vodka—the only way to celebrate. Pozdravlenie!"

"That means congratu—" Neal started.

"I got the meaning loud and clear," Peter said, clinking glasses with them.

"What's this—a celebration? Did you hear?" Richard asked. He'd approached with Travis to see what all the back pounding was about, and soon they were downing shots, too. For once, everyone else was talking more than Neal. He appeared genuinely stunned at the news.

Almost exactly a year ago Neal had been at Columbia taking admittance exams. Now he was accepted into the PhD program and exhibiting his own works of art in a museum gallery. Peter couldn't have prouder if he'd been his own son. He couldn't wait to tell El.

There wasn't much time available to celebrate. The reception would open soon. Neal persuaded everyone to hold off mentioning anything about it to his relatives, explaining that he wanted to wait till the supper at June's to make the announcement. Pulling Peter aside, he asked, "I was surprised to see you so early. Anything come up at work?"

Faced with a direct question, Peter knew what to say. "Duncan Longthorpe was killed today."

Neal's eyes widened. "When? How?"

"He was being remanded into federal custody. Drive-by shooting on the street outside the Metropolitan Correctional Center when he was being transferred. The perp got away and is being hunted now."

"You think it was Ydrus?"

"They're the most likely candidate. Longthorpe was right to be fearful for his life." Peter shook his head in frustration. "We'd only had a few days to interrogate him. We might have been able to learn so much more. And with Longthorpe unable to testify, the case against Bryan is weaker."

"Someone must have supplied the gunman with the schedule." Neal raised a brow. "Inside informant?"

"It sounds like that to me. We've ordered heightened security for Hagen and have set up 24-hour monitoring."

A bell sounded in the gallery. Neal slanted a glance to the entrance. "That's the signal they're opening the doors."

"No more business tonight," Peter said firmly. "This evening is all about Neal Caffrey, the artist. How's it feel?"

"Like a dream," he admitted. "I have a hard time believing it's real and not a con that's about to blow up."

"You'll get used to it," Peter said confidently. "Soon you'll think that old life was just a weird nightmare of the past. Your dream's become the new reality."

**Neal's loft. Saturday morning.**

Sunlight was already streaming in through the skylight by the time Neal awoke on Saturday morning. It was already past nine but no need to rush. He had zero plans for the weekend, and it was much more pleasant thinking about last night than getting out of bed.

The reception had gone off without a hitch. Peter had been right. Neal was living the dream. Richard's sculptures didn't fall off their pedestals, Aidan's videos didn't crash, and Neal had gotten to hear Stockman praise his paintings in front of his relatives. That had been the unexpected event of the evening. After months of torturing her students with her stinging critiques, Stockman was all smiles and kind words for relatives and friends. She'd teased Neal about his use of a fedora hanging from an easel as his bio photo and hadn't even scorched him when he reminded her it was her idea.

Scenes from last night were etched permanently in his memory. Richard's mom hugging Travis. Keiko's dad smiling his approval at Aidan. Sherkov expounding on Neal's paintings to Noelle and Elizabeth. Validation for their year's work. And now he was on the path to obtain a doctorate . . .

Sara appeared to enjoy herself. Neal hadn't been able to spend much time with her, but he'd noticed Henry and Eric with her. He was particularly pleased to see her engaged in a conversation with Noelle and Irene toward the end of the reception. The three women had moved into the foyer to talk. Hopefully Sara was feeling better about her own situation because of it.

Neal had a long discussion with Eric about his paintings. Henry's architect impressed Neal with his familiarity on contemporary art movements. Perhaps he could instill Henry with a greater appreciation of art.

Afterward, June's chef Emil served an elegant buffet for the family. It was much too sophisticated to be called supper. Neal announced over drinks the news about being accepted into the doctorate program. The rest of the evening passed in a blur of hugs and congratulations from the older generation and teasing from Angela and Michael about the lack of sleep he'd have to endure.

But those sleepless nights were still months off. Neal had a little work left to do on his papers, but by mid-May, his classes would be over for the semester, and he could focus on his upcoming trip to London with Peter. After that it was on to Paris, a reunion with Fiona, and retrieval of the Braque painting. If his luck held, he'd solve the mystery behind it and rescue a long-lost horde of stolen art works before classes started. _Dream big_ , that was his motto.

After several more minutes of daydreaming, the sun shining on the terrace beckoned him. The shower could wait. Neal made a pot of coffee and poured himself a mug to drink outside while reading the morning paper.

He slipped on a robe and opened the front door. The housekeeper had already placed the paper on the side table. A gift bag had been placed beside the newspaper. Neal placed the bag and the paper on the dining table. When he took out the tissue paper he found a sophisticated cocoa-colored box with a band of fireworks on the lid and an enclosure card. _Thanks for a delightful evening! Sara._

Neal smiled. She must have planned it the day before. That was thoughtful of her. Had she dropped it by early this morning? She'd chosen her gift well. Mascleta chocolates. He recognized the distinctive box immediately. He hadn't realized Mascleta chocolates were available in the city. He'd had them in Spain a few years ago. The chocolates were made by a Barcelona chocolatier. Dark chocolate pods covered Pop Rocks and hazelnut praline. They'd been named after a fireworks event in Valencia. Biting into a chocolate made the rocks explode in the mouth—a gustatory fireworks. Neal chuckled. Was Sara referencing the Fourth of July fireworks from last year? Clever of her. Those chocolates were sinful. Just looking at the box made him want to eat one.

Neal took the paper, his coffee, and the box of chocolates out onto the terrace. He opened the paper to the Arts & Leisure section—appropriate for the man of leisure he intended to be today. He nibbled on a chocolate, _pop_ . . . _pop_. Gotta love the Pop Rocks. He'd give her a call later to thank her.

Neal took his time reading the paper, indulging himself in only two chocolates, although he easily could have eaten more. Eventually he worked up the energy to go inside and take a shower. He planned to stop by the exhibition later in the morning and see how many people were there. Noelle, Joe, Irene, and Edmund had probably already left to go back to Washington. Henry said he might return for a second look now that he was an art connoisseur, but Neal doubted it. Henry would be spending the week in D.C. where he was scheduled to meet with the FAA. His unfinished loft needed his help more than Neal did.

When Neal finished his shower, he pulled out lightweight slacks and shirt to wear. It was supposed to be unseasonably hot today. It was already feeling stuffy inside the loft. Surely he didn't need the air-conditioning already? Perhaps his shower had been too hot.

Neal went into the kitchenette for a glass of cold water. The humidity in the air made him sweat as if as if it were July.

He went outside on the terrace to get some fresh air. His stomach was starting to feel queasy. Had he overindulged on the chocolates? Those Pop Rocks were doing a number to his insides.

Neal walked to the edge of the terrace and looked out at the street below. There was a light breeze. It helped cool down his face. He was starting to feel hotter than the fireworks in the chocolates. There were a few people strolling along Riverside Drive. He watched them idly as he tried to slow down his breathing. Cool thoughts. Snow. He was flopped on a block of ice like a polar bear. That was a relaxing thought . . .

Wait … Who was that below? Neal stared down, his heart pounding in his chest. There was no doubt. Fowler! He'd just walked past the mansion and was turning the corner. Where was he going? Neal raced over to the far southern side of the terrace but he couldn't spot him. He took a quick swipe of his forehead to get rid of the sweat. He couldn't let him get away. Not this time. He'd kidnapped Mozzie. Was he coming back for Neal? Well, it wouldn't work. If he thought he could tail Neal, he was in for a rude awakening.

Putting his hands on the balustrade, Neal swung up and over. In an instant he'd climbed down the wall. Fowler was nowhere in sight, but he had to be nearby. Neal ran to the corner and scanned the side streets. He was sweating from the exertion and had to blink his eyes several times as the street became blurry. How had it gotten hot so quickly? And where was Fowler?

Neal took a deep breath and sprinted down the street.

 

* * *

**_Notes_ ** _:  Did Neal actually see Fowler or is something else going on? Find out next week in Chapter 8: All For One. Fireworks have been a favorite theme for our series, but they've never taken on a sinister meaning till now. The fireworks Neal watched with Sara occurred in Caffrey Disclosure by Penna Nomen. She wrote a delightful post about fireworks in Caffrey Conversation for our blog._

_Over the past year and a half since Neal began working at the FBI, Mozzie has slowly become friends with Peter, Travis, Diana, and Tricia, but there's been one team member who's been a holdout—Jones. Neal senses a video game may be the key to rapprochement. I wrote about game theory, Caffrey Conversation style, this week for our blog._

**_Blog_ ** _: Penna Nomen & Silbrith Conversation: _ [ _www.pennasilbrithconversation.blogspot.com_ ](http://www.pennasilbrithconversation.blogspot.com) _  
_ **_Chapter Visuals and Music_ ** _: The Raphael's Dragon board on the Caffrey Conversation Pinterest website:_ [ _www.pinterest.com/caffreycon_ ](http://www.pinterest.com/caffreycon)


	8. All For One

**Federal Building. May 2, 2005. Monday morning.**

When Peter arrived at work on Monday, Longthorpe was the top item on his agenda. No reports about the murder had come in over the weekend, and he was taking that as a bad sign. Hughes confirmed his fears. The police hadn't been able to track down the gunman. So far no witness had come forward to provide any license plate information. A couple of witnesses reported the driver wore a hoodie and sunglasses. A few had seen a gloved arm. No one could tell if it had been a man or a woman.

John Hobhouse of the Interpol art crimes task force left a voicemail while Peter was speaking with Hughes. John wanted to hold a telephone conference with him and Neal at eleven. Peter checked his schedule and didn't find any conflicts. Neal was probably also free, but Peter called his cell phone to confirm. After four rings, he was forwarded to Neal's voicemail.

Neal worked the early shift. He should already be at work. Peter stepped outside his office and glanced down at the bullpen. He must be working in the lab since he wasn't at his desk. After an incident with Azathoth last January, Neal had promised to always have his cell phone with him. Had he grown lax?

Peter jogged down the steps and strode into the lab, preparing his lecture on the way. But it would have to wait. Neal wasn't in the lab either.

Travis, who had the seat next to Neal's, was working at his computer. "Have you seen Neal today?" Peter asked, feeling the first twinge of uneasiness.

That twinge turned into a sharp stab when Travis said he hadn't. "Did you try his cell?" he asked. At Peter's confirmation, he offered to pull up his GPS location. Both Neal and Peter's watches had enhanced capabilities in the aftermath of threats made by Azathoth.

Peter's cell phone rang. When he checked the display, he was surprised to see an unknown international number. "Hi, Peter. It's Fiona. Sorry to bother you at work, but have you heard from Neal?" At her words, Peter's unease heightened.

"Not since Friday evening. Was he supposed to contact you?"

"We've made a tradition of calling each other on Sunday morning your time. I didn't hear from him all day and keep getting his voicemail. He hadn't mentioned anything about going undercover."

Travis pulled up the tracking service on his computer while Peter reassured Fiona he'd get back to her. "Neal's watch shows that he's at home," Travis said. "Perhaps he's sick?"

If Neal were ill, he could have slept through Peter's call, but he likely wouldn't have failed to respond to any of Fiona's messages. Peter returned to his office and called June. She hadn't seen Neal since Friday night either and offered to check the loft. A tense five minutes later, she called back. Neal's cell phone, wallet, and watch were on his dresser, but he wasn't there. The French doors to the terrace were ajar. His mail from Saturday and the Sunday paper were still on the table outside his front door.

What would make Neal leave and not take his watch or phone? Peter spun through the options in his head—each one was worse than the other.

He quickly assembled Jones, Travis and Diana, and within an hour they were examining the loft for evidence. Supplementary personnel would arrive shortly. The loft was being treated as a crime scene, with everything dusted for fingerprints and anything remotely suspicious bagged for analysis.

As June had reported, there was no obvious sign of foul play. The bed had been made. Clothes were hung up. No broken glass or overturned furniture. No signs of a search, no blood stains  . . .

Diana called out from the terrace. "Boss, did you contact Henry?"

"I left a message on his cell. He was flying to D.C. this morning and may be on board the plane. I also contacted Richard and Aidan. The last time they saw Neal was at the art reception."

Peter's greatest fear was that Azathoth had kidnapped him. But if it had been Azathoth, wouldn't he have left a message? On the way over, Peter pictured in his mind's eye the _Call of Cthulhu_ playing card Azathoth had doctored with the horrific image of Neal lying in a pool of blood. They'd treated it as a cruel hoax. Was it a warning instead of what was to come? Would they discover Neal posed in the same manner somewhere in the city?

On the dining table was a gift box of chocolates. Some fancy brand Peter had never heard of. The card said it was from Sara. Two of the chocolates were missing. There were six remaining. Diana collected them into evidence. In the sink was Neal's coffee mug. There was still a little coffee in it. Everything, including the coffee beans, was bagged for processing.

Peter suspected the coffee was from Saturday morning. June served coffee at the supper on Friday night so Neal probably wouldn't have made it that evening. The Saturday morning newspaper was on the kitchen counter—confirmation that someone had brought it inside the loft that morning. The housekeeper reported she'd placed the mail on the table on Saturday at two o'clock.

The only item in the loft that seemed in any way unusual was the box of chocolates. Peter asked June about the package. She'd been at breakfast when it arrived, but the housekeeper informed him that the concierge of the Carlton Hotel had delivered the gift bag around eight o'clock on Saturday morning. Peter remembered Sara having mentioned that's where she was staying. She must have bought them earlier in the week in preparation for the reception.

"Did you call Mozzie?" Peter asked Travis. Since Travis worked with Mozzie on the SETI committee, Mozzie tended to answer Travis's calls when he wouldn't respond to anyone else.

"I did—several times—and no answer. I'd asked Neal about Mozzie's absence at the reception, and he said he was away. He was quite vague, so I assumed it was something Mozzie didn't want broadcasted."

Peter stopped off at the Aloha Emporium on his way back to the office. Billy, the owner of the Emporium, was able to supply a few extra details. Mozzie had left on Wednesday. Although Billy wouldn't say where, he did admit it was out of the country and that the person Mozzie was working for confiscated phones so Peter was unlikely to get any reply until the conclusion of the job. It probably didn't matter. Peter had been with Neal on Friday night—more recently than Mozzie—and that wasn't providing anything useful.

Henry called Peter as he drove back to the Bureau. Peter pulled off on the side of the road before telling him. Henry's initial shock at the news prevented the deluge of questions and accusations that Peter was braced for, and he appreciated Henry's restraint. He was catching a return flight that would leave in an hour and would meet Peter at the office. By then Peter hoped he'd be able to supply some of the answers they all desperately wanted.

When Peter arrived at the Federal Building, the bullpen had been transformed into full alert status. Hughes was coordinating operations with NYPD, who'd been called in to help with the hunt. The team was working on the presumption Neal had been kidnapped. Conceivably it could be Adler, but Peter was far more concerned that Azathoth was responsible for his disappearance.

Peter had called El earlier in the day. Henry told him he'd take responsibility for informing Neal's relatives. Peter was grateful for his offer. Just explaining it to El had been enough of an emotional drain. It was late in the evening in Paris. Peter decided to wait till the next day to call Fiona.

He got up from his desk to check in with Hughes when Travis knocked on the frame of the open door. "The malware was activated at the Met. I've already spoken with Aidan, and his team is on it."

Peter motioned him into his office. "The Met's updated their software?"

Travis nodded as he took a seat. "We already have the malware quarantined. Aidan's team is coordinating with the Met to ensure that the backup security system is running smoothly. As we discussed, the infected software appears to function normally so Azathoth won't be aware we've discovered it. The Met's beefed up their security protocol. Aidan's team is in charge of tracing the signal."

"A coincidence that Neal disappears just as it's activated?"

He shook his head dubiously. "I don't like coincidences any more than you do."

They went downstairs to inform the rest of the team. Jones and Diana were in the lab where the command center had been set up to monitor communications.

"Neal may have been kidnapped to assist with the heist," Diana mused, "but what help could he provide? An unwilling accomplice? A forgery?"

"The malware has sometimes been installed weeks before a theft occurs," Travis warned. "If Neal were kidnapped to create a forgery, they could have spirited him off practically anywhere to accomplish it."

"You're thinking of the attempt by the Russians to kidnap him in March," Jones said. "This time it could be the Italian mafia, Ydrus, or a small group of criminals. Probably not a single thief. A kidnapping usually requires at least two or three people to be effective."

"In the past, a kidnapping orchestrated by Azathoth wouldn't be necessarily connected to the heist itself," Peter noted. He didn't voice his worst fear—that Azathoth intended to plant Neal's body at the Met in a theatrical gesture similar to the way he'd staged the death of the Czech detective. No one else mentioned it either, though he was sure they were thinking it. "What bothers me is that there was no sign of a struggle. Did Neal go willingly?"

"He might have," Travis said, "if he wanted to buy time or protect others."

Diana nodded in agreement. "If Azathoth convinced Neal, for instance, that Peter would be harmed unless Neal assisted in a crime, Neal could have agreed, hoping he'd have a chance to escape later."

Realistically, that scenario fit the evidence the best, and if that turned out to be the case, they could be in for a long period of uncertainty.

But the first break didn't take long to arrive.

Jones had gone to the forensics lab to check on their progress and came back with the news. "Neal was poisoned." He handed Peter the toxicology report. "The chocolates had been injected with a cocktail containing atropine or belladonna as it's known. The lab reported that this particular formulation is one prescribed for certain medical conditions at much lower doses. It's time-release which prolongs the onset of symptoms. From the amount found in the chocolates, it's not considered medicine but poison."

"What symptoms are we talking about?" Travis asked.

Peter read from the report. "Fever, convulsions, hallucinations, delirium, tachycardia, blurred vision, loss of balance—"

"Has he been found yet?" Henry's voice rang across the lab as he strode in.

Agent Badillo followed closely on his heels. "Sorry. Once I told him where you were he insisted on coming in."

Peter dismissed his apology with a wave. "It's okay." He turned to Henry. "Take a seat." He reviewed the little they knew about Neal's disappearance and the report from the lab.

"How strong was the dose?" Henry demanded. "Could it be lethal?"

Jones hesitated. "I asked the same question of the supervising doctor. He couldn't give a definitive answer. Every individual reacts differently. But the probability is not in Neal's favor."

"Sara wouldn't have poisoned Neal," Henry muttered, his jaw working.

"All indications point to her," Peter said. "There's the note that accompanied the chocolates. Her fingerprints, which are on file from when she was vetted, match those found on the box and card."

Henry shook his head. "We all know how easy it is to plant fingerprints. Sara's far too smart to have left so much incriminating evidence."

"I agree. Unless Sara's con artist skills top Neal's and she left the evidence, knowing we wouldn't believe she was capable of such stupid mistakes." Was Sara an Ydrus operative or was she being framed? In either case they had only one recourse open to them.

Diana was already on the phone to Sterling-Bosch. After a quick call, she reported, "Sara's still at work."

Peter glanced at his watch. Four o'clock. "Jones, Diana, you're with me. We'll head there." He ordered Jones and Diana to update agents and NYPD. "Inform NYPD of the situation and notify the hospitals. We've got to change the parameters. If Neal's hallucinating and delirious, he could have wandered off anywhere." Once Diana and Jones left, he nodded at Travis and Henry. "My office, now."

When they'd reconvened inside his office and the door was closed, he directed the issue squarely. "If Neal's hallucinating he's being pursued, we all know where he'd head."

"You're thinking of the hospital game, aren't you?" Henry said.

He nodded and turned to Travis. "How familiar are you with the tunnels at Columbia?"

"I've been down there a little but Richard and Aidan are much more familiar. I'll call them to meet me."

"Do it," Peter said. "I can call in emergency responders to search the tunnels, but they'll have a tough slog making their way through the off-limits tunnels let alone finding Neal."

"Let us take a shot at it first," Travis urged. "Richard and Aidan helped Neal comb the tunnels when Mozzie was missing. If Neal wanted to hide underground, he would have likely chosen one of the locations where he thought Mozzie would be."

"Mozzie was missing?" Henry blurted. "I didn't know about that."

"I'll fill you in later," Travis said, "but you know the tunnels aren't the only possibility. Neal could have taken refuge in one of Mozzie's safe houses."

"Do you have any idea where they are?" Peter demanded.

He shook his head. "Neal searched all the ones he knew about when he was looking for Mozzie. He mentioned going by subway, but I don't have any idea where they are. I imagine they're scattered throughout the five boroughs."

Peter considered a moment. "The tunnels are within walking distance. We've already spoken with the taxi companies and haven't found anyone matching Neal's description who took a ride. NYPD's checking with Metro on subway and bus lines. We'll focus on the tunnels for now. I'll go with Diana and Jones to bring in Sara and give you an hour to search. If Neal's not found by then, I can't wait any longer. I'll call in the emergency responders. If Neal's in an illegal area, that's hardly a concern right now. In any case, in his condition no one will fault him."

"Travis, I'm going with you," Henry said. "You need me along. If he's hallucinating, he'll more likely respond to me than anyone else."

Peter opened the door and descended the stairs to join Jones and Diana. A delirious Neal in the tunnels underneath Columbia? He'd ingested the chocolates on Saturday morning, over two days ago. It was a nightmare Peter didn't want to contemplate but he had no option.

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

"Radio transmissions aren't possible in the tunnels," Travis warned Henry as they entered the elevator for the ride down to the parking garage in the basement. 

"You mean we'll have no means to communicate with you?" This was becoming steadily worse by the moment. Miles of tunnels to search, most of them uncharted and off limits. Neal could be anywhere.

"Ever since I heard about all the time Neal and Richard were spending in the tunnels, I've been trying to find a sweet spot," Travis added as if he were reading Henry's thoughts. "The problem is the tunnels aren't uniform in their construction, so what works in one tunnel won't work in another."

Travis had called from the Bureau to alert Aidan and Richard. Aidan's office was near Columbia and he left immediately to gather their gear. Travis and Henry would use Travis's car to drive to the rendezvous spot, picking up Richard on the way. They'd meet Aidan outside the gym.

Richard was standing on the street outside his office in SoHo when they arrived. On the drive to Columbia they brought him up to speed. Henry had printed off the symptoms of atropine poisoning and read them aloud so he'd know what to expect.

"In other words, if Neal hasn't fallen into a coma, he's delirious and his vision's wrecked." Richard said, his voice rough from shock.

"That about sums it up," Henry confirmed. He wasn't about to mention the other likely option—that Neal had already died in some out-of-the-way corner of the tunnel network. From the looks on Travis and Richard's faces, they were already aware of it.

"What's the hospital game you referred to?" Richard asked.

"It's an advanced form of hide-and-seek Neal invented as a kid when he was in the hospital and has been refining ever since. He claimed that he'd established rules that he had to return to his hospital room when he wasn't feeling healthy enough to play, but there was a major flaw. What if he felt too bad to return or didn't realize how sick he was?" He turned to Travis. "You're into _Star Trek_. You remember Tri-Dimensional Chess?"

Travis nodded, his eyes on the road. "It took the 64 squares on the chessboard and separated them into separate platforms, increasing the complexity severalfold. Spock was a master of the game."

"That's what Neal did to hide-and-seek. We've both played it in the hospital. The last time, once I was recovered enough to realize what an idiotic game it is, I vowed never to repeat it. I must be getting old. I don't think Neal's gotten to that point yet. He still has the heart of a seven-year-old."

"If he's looking to play the hospital game, the tunnels are the natural location," Richard said. "The underground pipes which are suspended in the tunnels make additional levels he can take advantage of. Then there are the crawl spaces and the secret areas. Aidan and I know a few of them, but Neal and Mozzie are the experts. He's shown me spaces I would have bet were inaccessible, and he proved me wrong. I couldn't believe how he could fold and contort his body to snake around the pipes."

Richard described what Henry feared the most too. If Neal had squeezed into a tight area, how would they be able to extricate him? Henry didn't have his agility. He wouldn't be able go in after him. Richard was more slender than he was, and if he couldn't manage it, they'd have to call in the pros.

Henry spent the rest of the drive grilling them about Mozzie's disappearance. Their account of what went on had some gaping holes, like why he'd gone MIA in the first place.

"Neal said that Mozzie had been experimenting with drugs and a cocktail he took caused him to have temporary amnesia," Richard explained.

Henry groaned. "Was he ever tested? Did Neal learn what drug he'd taken?" Something else was going on, he was sure of it. Why hadn't they demanded more answers? Henry caught himself in time before cross-examining them further. His anxiety for Neal was causing him to lash out at them, and he needed to cool it.

Travis said that while Henry, Richard, and Aidan searched in the tunnels, he'd coordinate operations with Agent Badillo who was already in the FBI van parked near Watson Hall where Neal had his studio. That was the mobile command station for Bureau agents who were currently conducting a search in the areas around the mansion and the university. NYPD detectives were also on the scene.

When Henry and Richard arrived at the gym, Aidan was waiting outside for them. He had his tunneling gear in a backpack and had brought along an extra headlamp for Henry. Richard and Aidan had already outlined the search parameters by phone. "We should start with a cubbyhole near the gym that Neal's used before as a safe haven," Aidan said.

"Watch for our signal, Henry, when we need to enter silent running mode," Richard cautioned. "The campus police have installed webcams and listening devices at various locations to keep track of trespassers. We know how to get around them. Just follow our lead."

They entered the tunnel network through a legal entrance, but after walking south about ten minutes, Richard ducked behind a column and pointed to a manhole cover. Startled, Henry shot him a questioning look. _Seriously_?

He'd been in some tight spots before, but nothing had prepared him for the bowels of Columbia. Near total darkness, stagnant pools of water, layers upon layers of conduits and pipes of every diameter. An occasional scurrying of paws alerted him to the presence of rats. They were now two levels below the public level. Some of the openings were so narrow Henry could barely squeeze through. No wonder Neal loved it down here. But to Henry it was a nightmare. The heat was brutal. The air foul. The slightest sound made the hair on his neck stand up. It was worse than any horror movie.

Richard and Aidan didn't seem bothered. They were as insane as Neal. Henry knew Mozzie loved the tunnel network. Wasn't that a clear sign the place should be avoided?

And now Neal was delirious, probably hallucinating being chased by cops, bad guys, monsters, ghosts . . . It would be so easy to imagine ghosts down here. If ever a place was haunted, this was it. Henry clamped down on his own fear, forcing himself to focus on Neal. Somewhere he was down here . . . waiting to be rescued. They'd find him. He'd be okay. _Just keep telling yourself that_.

The one good thing was that they were now so far away from the main tunnels, they could talk. They snaked along the pipes, shining their flashlights into the dark pipes around them and calling out Neal's name. They'd spread out, but were staying within earshot. Henry stopped to peer around an overhead conduit. The tunnel itself was about fifteen feet high, but it was so filled with pipes, they were forced to stoop to explore it. If Neal had climbed behind one of the pipes and fallen into a coma, which was more than likely, how would they know where he was? Was he—? Henry stopped himself, refusing to believe. He wasn't willing to contemplate that _ever_.

Henry started singing "Nothing Else Matters" as he inched his way forward.

"What's with the song?" Richard asked.

"Neal may respond to it. I used to sing it when he was sick about eight years ago. It annoyed him seriously but it became a warped kind of lullaby." Henry knew he was clutching at straws. But, hell, he had to have to something to go on.

They continued to talk, hoping that the conversation might waken Neal if he'd passed out. Tac-Con, their friends and relatives, the art exhibition, the yellow-faced bee, music, anything that might resonate.

Richard paused midway through one particularly narrow corridor. "This is a hideout he used for several hours in the fall." Wiping his forehead with one hand, he scanned the pipes anxiously with his flashlight. Sweat was running down all their faces.

Henry surveyed the surroundings with dismay. "Couldn't he have picked a better spot than this snake pit?"

Richard shrugged. "It was colder back then . . . Neal? Hey, it's your AFO brothers . . . Neal?"

Aidan had gone up ahead. "Stop playing games, d'Artagnan. You won. Time to go home."

"Why's Aidan calling him that?" Henry muttered to Richard. "And what's with AFO?"

"Aidan dubbed him d'Artagnan after their first fencing bout. AFO stands for All For One. It was an acronym we gave ourselves. Long story . . . Neal? You there?"

Henry continued singing in a low voice.

"D'Artagnan! C'mon on, bro. We need you." Aidan snaked his way along the tunnels, his voice sounding more and more desperate  . . .  He paused and gazed up. "D'Artagnan, is that you?" His voice was a frantic cry.

Henry and Richard raced over to his position and scanned the pipes overhead. A faint scratching was heard behind a large pipe next to the ceiling.

Aidan gestured them to be silent. "D'Artagnan, we need you, man," he called out once more then stopped to listen. Henry held his breath, straining to hear the slightest sound.

A faint raspy whisper. "Aramis, _c'est toi_?"

Aidan stared bewildered at Richard who sprinted forward. " _Ici Porthos. Nous sommes tous ici. Vite! Vite!_ "

The same scratchy whisper. " _La reine_?"

" _C'est ça. Elle a besoin de nous_." Richard muttered to Henry, "He's speaking French. Thinks we're the Three Musketeers. He asked about the queen. I told him she needs us."

Richard continued to talk in French while Henry clambered on top of a pipe to get a closer look. Using his flashlight, he caught of glimpse of two feverish eyes in a blackened face, but Neal immediately flinched and dropped out of sight.

"It's me, Henry," he pleaded. "You're safe. You can come out." How had Neal succeeded in wedging himself so far back? It was impossible to reach him and pull him out. They'd have to bring down heavy equipment to remove the pipes if he weren't able to extricate himself.

Richard was supposedly telling him the queen's life was in danger and that Richelieu was on their trail. He was the only one Neal would respond to. They were no longer shining the light into the pipes but instead reflecting the beams on themselves. Hopefully he wasn't too far gone to recognize them.

"One of the symptoms of the poison is extreme sensitivity to light," Henry cautioned in a whisper. "Don't shine the flashlight directly in his eyes."

The scrabbling sounds were louder now. First tentative and then prolonged. Richard kept up his encouragement, speaking softly but urgently. Neal muttered something about Richelieu.

One grimy hand snaked out from the pipe. Then another. Finally his head emerged, black with soot and sweat. He looked down at them, blinking furiously. He probably couldn't distinguish who they were. " _Richelieu vient_?"

Richard said something which made him nod, and he squirmed and twisted out from the pipe. The drop was about eight feet. They gathered around underneath to catch him.

They were all urging him on now in French and English. "You're almost there. Just drop. We'll catch you."

Neal hesitated and for a long moment, he froze in position, listening to their entreaties. Then with a jerky nod he pulled himself the rest of the way out and let go.

He fell with none of his usual grace, but it didn't matter. They caught him and eased him onto the ground. Richard pulled a cloth out of his backpack and soaked it in water to wipe his face while Henry reached for his water bottle. "He's burning up," Richard said worriedly.

Henry eased Neal up against his knee to a semi-sitting position. Neal was conscious but his eyes were blown wide with hardly any blue showing. They directed their flashlights to the ground to minimize his distress. He gazed around at them with confusion. " _Où_ _est Athos_?" He looked up at Henry, his brow furrowing, "Henry?" he asked tentatively, his voice a thready whisper.

"In the flesh, kiddo. Time to get you out of this hellhole." He raised the water bottle to his lips. "Small sips." He coaxed him to take a little, but Neal's eyes closed as he sagged against Henry. He was drifting in and out of consciousness.

Richard looked at his watch. "We need to let Travis know. We only have a few minutes before he has to call in the big guns."

"Go on back and alert him," Aidan urged. "You know the routes better than me and can get back much faster. Have the medics ready for us."

"You and Henry can manage Neal?"

Henry nodded. "I can carry him out by myself if necessary."

Richard rattled off directions to Aidan for a faster route and with a final pat on Neal's shoulder sprinted off down the tunnel.

Henry felt his forehead. Richard was right. Neal felt like he was on fire. "You got any cloths in your backpack?"

Aidan reached inside and pulled out a bandanna. Soaking it in water, he tied it around Neal's forehead. Neal revived enough to begin mumbling in French. Henry caught the word Richelieu several times. Damn. What had made him fixate on Richelieu?

"We can't stay here any longer, kiddo. Richelieu's onto us." Henry slipped an arm under his shoulders and lifted. Aidan was on the other side. Probably adrenaline but Neal seemed a featherweight to him.

Neal tried to help but was too weak to do much. It didn't matter. He and Aidan half-carried him on the long journey back, hoisting him through the manholes when necessary. Neal rasped a few words, sometimes in French, a little in English, German. Henry tried to understand what he saying but it all sounded like nonsense.

"Any significance to Richelieu?" he asked Aidan.

"When Neal's recovered, ask him to tell you about the Three Musketeers. This much I can tell you—Richelieu was our code for Fowler."

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

At the end of a long day of meetings, Sara headed back to the temporary office which had been assigned to her. Normally, days like this were an excruciating ordeal, but for once she actually appreciated the endless discussions. They gave her something else to focus on and less time to be alone with her thoughts. Her colleagues were being considerate. No one mentioned Bryan in her presence, though she'd heard the whispered comments in the hallways and seen the slanted looks of pity. That was the worst part. She'd been forced into the role of the wronged woman—the victim—and she hated it.

In a perverse way she should be grateful to Bryan. First she'd tortured herself for rejecting his proposal, then she'd had a few minutes of feeling sorry that he'd destroyed his career, but now that the scumbag was trying to shove the blame on her, any vestiges of goodwill vanished. Instead of remorse and sympathy, all she felt was anger. What a jerk.

Noelle had been a tremendous help. When they talked at Neal's reception she wasted no time on sympathetic remarks. Instead she entertained Sara with a satirical list of all the mistakes she'd made about her ex-husband, even joking about how they should form a Dupes Anonymous support group. Neal's grandmother Irene had divulged the wrong assumptions she'd made about Edmund when they were students at Columbia. And as Sara laughed with them, her humiliation became somewhat more bearable. She scribbled a reminder to call Neal to thank him for insisting she go to the reception.

Sara had spoken with Fiona the previous afternoon. Ever since Bryan had been arrested, that had been a daily occurrence. Neal usually called Fiona on Sunday but he hadn't that day. Sara suspected it was because his family was still in town, and she didn't try to reach him. By now they'd probably left. She'd give him a call this evening.

Her life was looking up. The meeting with Mr. Bosch was unexpected. It was flattering to hear him say London needed her talents. Sterling-Bosch was overhauling every aspect of their business to ensure Ydrus made no more encroachments, and they were in desperate need of investigators. With Bryan gone, Mr. Bosch asked her to take over his assignments. The job would be brutal—constant traveling, long hours—but to Sara that sounded like heaven. It would enable her to focus on the future and put the past behind her.

She shoved her papers into a drawer and stood up to leave when she heard rapid footsteps in the hallway. She'd left the door of her office open and was surprised to see Peter, Jones, and Diana approach. Her smile of welcome vanished with one look at their serious faces. Even Diana appeared somber.

"Has there been another incident?"

Peter nodded and closed the door. "Sara, we're here to place you under arrest."

"Me?" Her voice came out as a gasp. She swallowed and cleared her throat. "For what?"

"For the attempted murder of Neal Caffrey."

At Peter's words, a loud ringing filled Sara's head. Shocked, she sat frozen at her desk.  She scanned their faces. This couldn't be real. What did they mean? "Is he all right?" she blurted.

He had that same terrifyingly grim look. "We don't know."

Sara dimly registered them reciting her rights, handcuffing her. They took her bag, her laptop. "You know this is a mistake. I couldn't have done it."

"We have no choice. You'll have every opportunity to defend yourself. We'll use the service elevator and keep it as discreet as possible."

Just last week she'd witnessed Bryan's walk of shame. Now she'd have to endure it? This was insanity.

Diana dropped her jacket over Sara's hands, obscuring the handcuffs. Sara blinked at her. She should thank Diana, but the words were stuck in her mouth.

Peter's phone rang. He grabbed it out of his pocket. Jones and Diana both stopped their activities. "Travis?  . . . Thank God!" Peter turned to them. "They found him—he's alive!"

Sara broke out into a wide smile of relief with the others, forgetting everything else. Then Diana opened the door and reality set back in.

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

On the way back to the Bureau, Travis called Peter with updates. In his last one, they were in the emergency room of NY Presbyterian Hospital. Neal was being examined and they were waiting to speak with a doctor. Jones and Diana dropped Peter off at the parking garage as soon as they arrived, saying they'd handle processing Sara.

When Peter entered the emergency center, he found Travis along with Richard, Henry, and Aidan camped out in a corner of the waiting room. "What's the report?"

"No word yet," Henry said. "He's been there for close to two hours now. We should be hearing something soon."

"You said he was conscious when you found him?"

"Semi-conscious," Aidan corrected. "He was delirious. Had moments when he appeared to recognize us but they didn't last."

"He was hallucinating that he was in the middle of a Three Musketeers adventure when we arrived," Henry added. "He'd only respond to Richard when he spoke French."

Peter eyed the four of them. "I understand that Neal fell down a manhole on 116th Street, correct?" If the Columbia tunnels were placed in the official report, there'd be hell to pay. Peter was sure the area Neal was in was illegal, and there could be serious repercussions. Not that he wouldn't personally mind one bit if the entire network were permanently sealed off, but he didn't want to be the Grinch who did it.

Travis nodded, his face carefully neutral. "That's what will be in my report as well."

"It couldn't have been easy getting him out of . . . the manhole."

"We got it done," Henry said simply. They were wearing clean clothes with both Richard and Henry sporting MIT t-shirts and sweat pants which were a little long on them.

"Nice threads," Peter commented.

Richard gave a tired smile. "Aidan lives near Columbia. After the ambulance took Neal away, we stopped to change before coming over. They probably wouldn't have let us in otherwise." His expression grew more serious. "You arrested Sara?"

Peter nodded. "She'll be transferred to the Metropolitan Correctional Center."

"Family of Neal Caffrey?" At the message over the loudspeaker, Henry and Peter walked up.

A young doctor introduced herself as Dr. Vaswani and led them to a consultation room.

"Under the circumstances, Mr. Caffrey is doing very well," she assured them. "Since we already knew the poison used, we were able to immediately supply an antidote. It should kick in quickly to alleviate his symptoms."

"Is he conscious?" Peter asked.

"He's sleeping right now. He's suffering from extreme dehydration but we're replenishing his fluids and have given him medication for his fever. You'll be able to see him once we move him into a room but most likely it will be several hours before he awakens."

Peter explained that a guard would be posted outside Neal's door. Although Sara was in custody, Peter was convinced the real assailant was still at large. The doctor appeared shocked by the precautions but Henry was in agreement.

When they returned to the others, Peter urged them to go home. He and Henry would stay and keep them advised. Now that the initial crisis was resolved, Henry was full of questions about Sara. Peter understood. He felt the same way. They grabbed a couple of coffees from the courtesy coffee cart and appropriated an empty consultation room to discuss the situation.

Peter pulled a chair close to the table. "Someone has done a very effective job in framing her. With the evidence in hand, I had no choice. Frankly, placing her under arrest is best for her as well. Whoever tried to kill Neal could have her in his sights now. He may intend to make it look like she committed suicide out of remorse for what she'd done. Sara's being held in a private room in a special section of the facility for persons of interest. She'll be safer there than anywhere else."

Henry set down his Styrofoam coffee cup. "You said 'whoever', but you believe Bryan's responsible, don't you?"

Peter nodded. "He's not only trying to save his own skin but is acting out of personal revenge as well. Did you hear Sara rejected his proposal?"

"Neal told me. Bryan may hold Neal partly accountable for her action. My understanding is that Sara felt for a long time Bryan knew she planned to reject his proposal. He could have been preparing the frame for several weeks. But why would he think we'd believe she tried to kill Neal?"

"We suspect Ydrus killed Longthorpe, either to prevent him divulging any information about their operations or as a lesson to others. Bryan may believe we'd think Sara was similarly acting under orders by Ydrus. He was casting her to be a ruthless Ydrus operative who'd stop at nothing whereas he was an innocent victim caught up in her web of deception."

Henry snorted. "It sounds ludicrous, but from what you've told me Bryan is a skilled enough actor that he might pull it off unless we uncover hard evidence to disprove it. Do you think Ydrus knows Longthorpe was cooperating?"

"They may suspect he'd break, but I doubt they know the extent of the damage. The protocols we've put in place are simply too strong."

Henry drained the last of his coffee. "Has any additional evidence come in against Sara?"

"We have her fingerprints and the note with the chocolates. On my way to the hospital, Jones called with news from the Swiss bank where Bryan's account is. The bank released confidential files showing Sara had deposited money into Bryan's account."

Henry gave a low whistle. "You're right. This has been carefully orchestrated. You'll need help on proving Bryan did it. Where he purchased the chocolates. Where he obtained the poison. Those could be international matters out of your jurisdiction. It goes without saying you can call on Win-Win for assistance. I'll call Allen tonight."

"I appreciate that and knew I could count on you. We can't arrest Bryan—we have no proof—but we're keeping a close eye on him and making sure he doesn't attempt to flee. His passport was confiscated when he was released on bail."

"Rejected love transformed to hatred"—Henry shrugged—"it's a common occurrence and a powerful motive for murder. He could blame Neal. You too, for that matter."

"I'm taking precautions," Peter said. He couldn't go into it with Henry, but he felt the odds of him being a target were slim to none. Ever since Sara told Peter about Bryan divulging Neal's criminal past to her, Peter had suspected Bryan was being driven by jealousy toward Neal. "I'll keep you informed on the case, but I'd like to ask a favor. I need to know what actually went on in the tunnels. I promise I won't include any of it in the official report."

Henry nodded, sympathy in his eyes. "Being shut out is brutal, isn't it? It's a deal, and one Neal would approve. You should also know that Neal made repeated references to Richelieu when we were carrying him out. Aidan wouldn't go into the details but said that Richelieu had been a code word for Fowler. Is it possible Fowler and Adler are mixed up in this?"

"Anything's possible, but it's not likely. Last fall when Fowler framed Neal, I suspect Neal made heavy use of the tunnels. He was probably reliving that time."

 

* * *

**_Notes_ ** _:  Coming next week is Chapter 9: The Puppetmaster you'll find many answers and a few surprises still to be revealed. Although this will be the final chapter of Raphael's Dragon, it's by no means the end of Neal's adventures. I'll have details about my upcoming stories next week and also about Penna's new vignette which she'll post in a few weeks._

_In 2007 Columbia University imposed stricter measures to close off tunnel access to would-be explorers. Had officials heard of Neal's narrow escape? Or was it, as Mozzie believes, to deny access to the alien tunnel slime that still resides there? I wrote about the tunnels and Neal's experiences at Columbia in my post for our blog. Penna wrote about the building blocks of Choirboy Caffrey. That story was a source of inspiration for me when I decided to write about Neal applying to Columbia. As he finishes his first year of grad school, it's a nostalgic time for both him and me._

_It's particularly appropriate that Henry, a character created by Penna Nomen, should be featured in this chapter which I posted on October 12. On October 12, 2013, Penna began posting Caffrey Conversation. At the time, she had no idea she was launching a series which now includes 18 works with many more to come. All the characters in the series join me in congratulating her on her third anniversary!_

_Another of Penna's ideas was also featured in this chapter, and that's the hospital game. She wrote about that recently for our blog. It was first described in By the Book._

_Neal's birthday may be in March but yesterday, on October 11, was Matt Bomer's birthday. Penna joins me in extending our best wishes to the man who gave life to Neal Caffrey and imbued him with such charm and wit. Happy Birthday, Matt!_

**_Blog_ ** _: Penna Nomen & Silbrith Conversation: _ [ _www.pennasilbrithconversation.blogspot.com_ ](http://www.pennasilbrithconversation.blogspot.com) _  
_ **_Chapter Visuals and Music_ ** _: The Raphael's Dragon board on the Caffrey Conversation Pinterest website:_ [ _www.pinterest.com/caffreycon_ ](http://www.pinterest.com/caffreycon)


	9. The Puppetmaster

**Municipal Correctional Center. May 3, 2005. Tuesday morning.**

On Tuesday morning, Peter and Tricia arrived at the Municipal Correction Center for their first joint interview of Sara. Tricia had already met with her the evening before. Although technically being held on suspicion of attempted murder, Sara was granted special privileges. Her accommodations were more like a sparsely furnished bedroom than a prison cell and Tricia had brought over a suitcase of clothes and personal items for her. Peter had been on the phone with R.W. Bosch the previous day to explain why it was in Sara's best interest to be in protective custody.

When they entered the interrogation room, Sara was waiting for them. On the surface she was poised and confident. Peter gave her high marks for concealing her anxiety.

He placed the tape recorder on the table and started it. "Would you rather wait till your lawyer's present?"

"No, I haven't gotten one yet."

"You could use a court-appointed lawyer," Tricia reminded her, "until you have one of your own."

"I know, and I may need to eventually, but I'm placing my trust in you that you'll prove my innocence. How's Neal?"

"Better," Peter said. "He's responding well to the antidote. Henry's with him now in the hospital."

She exhaled, a smile crossing her face. "That's a relief. I'm going to take that as a good omen." She took a deep breath. "Okay, lay it on me. How much evidence do you have?"

"Your fingerprints were found on the box of chocolates," Peter said. "The enclosure card, based on the handwriting sample you provided, has been confirmed to be written by you. There's only one store in New York that sells that brand of chocolate. They confirmed they'd received an online order from you with your credit card on April 24. The chocolates were delivered to your hotel on April 25."

"I interviewed the concierge at the hotel this morning," Tricia added. "She remembers receiving the chocolates. She said she found a note that you'd picked them up when she was away from her desk. Unfortunately, she no longer has the note. She explained that she'd received a call from you, placed from your room on Friday, requesting that the chocolates be delivered to Neal's home on Saturday morning. That phone call was recorded and is now being analyzed."

As they went through the evidence stacked against her, Sara's confident mask developed major cracks. At the conclusion, she acknowledged with a wince, "Perhaps I should arrange for a lawyer."

"You can stop and ask for one at any time," Tricia assured her, "but we're also asking you for something. Let's assume you're being framed. How was it accomplished?"

"You continue to believe it was Bryan?"

Peter nodded. "He's the logical choice—motive, opportunity."

Sara swallowed. "He hates Neal and me this much?"

"Not necessarily," Peter said. "You have to face the possibility that he could have been playing you all along. He may have been acting under Ydrus's orders from the beginning."

Sara nodded thoughtfully. "I'd noticed it myself. Beginning in February there was a coldness about him I'd never seen before. I thought he was upset at the length of time it was taking me to decide about his proposal." She gave a humorless chuckle. "That must have been my vanity speaking."

"Bryan could have easily copied your fingerprints and prepared a fingerprint glove," Tricia pointed out.

"I assume he'd also have no problem obtaining your credit card information from your wallet," Peter added. "Did he know that you were going to Neal's reception?"

Sara considered for a moment and nodded. "At work, a group of us discussed going out to dinner on Friday night. I believe that happened on Monday at the end of the afternoon meeting. I can give you the names of some of the people who were there. I remember Bryan was in the group. I glanced over to see his reaction when I said I wouldn't be able to attend. I was happy to have the reception as an excuse. I was uncomfortable being anywhere close to him, not that he ever brought it up. His demeanor was always professional, but he exhibited a frigid politeness that made me want to explode. It would have been so much easier to take, if he'd been angry."

"We think he was," Tricia said. "He was simply being careful not to reveal it." She opened up her briefcase and pulled out three 8 by 10-inch photos. "These are of the enclosure card and the envelope. What can you tell us about them?"

Sara studied the photos intently for several minutes then her face brightened. "I remember now. I'd sent Bryan a bottle of wine—a Bordeaux as I recall—as a thank you gift. I'd added this card to the bottle. He'd won a recognition award by the London office and had taken me out to dinner to celebrate."

"Did anyone besides you and Bryan see the card?" Tricia asked.

"Not that I'm aware of."

"Can you supply the date?" Peter asked.

"Around the middle of January as I recall. You should be able to find out the exact date. The London office must have a record of the ceremony. They hosted a reception. Mr. Bosch was even there."

"That was after you and Bryan had been in New York, correct?" Tricia asked.

Sara nodded. "We ran into Neal and Fiona at Regnier's Jewelers. It was during that trip that Bryan found out about the attempted robbery of the Marie Antoinette diamond earrings. But he only mentioned it to me later."

"We already have your statement on file about how Bryan warned you to stay away from Neal," Peter said. "During that December trip he saw you and Neal together a couple of times, didn't he?"

"That's right, but he didn't appear jealous."

"Do you know if Bryan has any experience with poisons?" Tricia asked.

"May I ask what kind of poison was used?"

"A belladonna derivative," Peter replied.

She looked at him, startled. "Belladonna? You're not serious? That's what the professor was worried about …"

"Slow down. What professor?"

Sara related how she and Bryan had worked a case in Cambridge for a client who was a chemistry professor. He'd talked to them about belladonna and Bryan had bought a book on medicinal plants. "The professor could corroborate that Bryan is familiar with belladonna, but then so am I."

"Can you think of anything else relevant to the case?" Tricia asked.

She nodded. "When you described the chocolates, you called them fireworks chocolates. You should know that I first suspected Bryan was jealous by the way he talked about a Fourth of July fireworks display Neal and I watched in Baltimore last year. Bryan commented about them when he took me to Paris over New Year's. He boasted that watching the fireworks burst over the Eiffel Tower while sipping Dom Perignon was much more spectacular than being on a sailboat."

"That also means Neal would have thought you were referencing the fireworks in Baltimore when he saw the chocolates?" Peter asked.

She nodded unhappily. "I'm sure of it. We joked about fireworks at the time. He'd have no reason to doubt they were sent from me."

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

"It's a well-crafted frame," Tricia said, placing the recorder in her briefcase. Sara had been taken back to her room a few minutes ago. "Proving that McKenzie did it won't be easy."

Peter placed the photos back into his briefcase. "Jones and Diana are in charge of questioning the hotel staff. So far they haven't found anyone who saw the package arrive at the concierge desk. The concierge claims she was told Sara would leave it on her desk. She discovered it'd arrived while she was on a break. Henry is coordinating operations with Win-Win in an attempt to discover where McKenzie purchased the poison. I've spoken with Hobhouse and he offered to assist with the Swiss banking authorities."

"That was a stroke of luck that the concierge hadn't already erased Sara's request to have the chocolates delivered," she commented.

"She said they keep recordings for a month in case of any delivery issues or questions on billing. I listened to the recording this morning and it certainly sounds like Sara. Travis is working on it now."

"Bryan was either exceptionally well-informed or remarkably lucky. The call was placed from her room while Sara was walking to the hotel from Sterling-Bosch. She doesn't have any witnesses."

"He could have obtained a key to her room. They were staying on the same floor in rooms that Sterling-Bosch leases for company use." Peter looked at his watch. "I'll give you a lift back to the Bureau and then I'm off to the hospital."

"Any updates on Neal?"

"Henry texted me. He's awakened a couple of times for brief periods. Henry's feeling greatly relieved that Neal recognized him and particularly that he's no longer speaking French."

Tricia laughed. "I'm sure."

"The doctors say he's recovering well. El came in last night. We got Henry to take a break so he could go back to his apartment and get a change of clothes. He stayed overnight with Neal. Angela's also coming by today."

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

When Peter arrived on Neal's floor at the hospital, he was pleased to see the policeman standing guard outside his room. He opened the door quietly and peered inside the dim room.

Neal was propped up on pillows and awake. He shielded his eyes when Peter opened the door, but his smile was a welcoming one as he called out a greeting. Heavy curtains covered the windows and the lights must have been turned down to the lowest setting. Photophobia and dilated pupils were common side effects of atropine and they'd been warned that Neal's eyes would need a day or two to recover.

Henry rose to greet him. "You just missed the doctor. She gave him high marks. No fever. His heart rate's returned to normal, too."

Neal reached for a water mug on the bedside table. "Which one of you wants to tell me how I wound up here? The doctor said I'd been poisoned, but that's all I know."

"I haven't had a chance to explain," Henry added. "When the doctor came in, she woke Neal up."

Peter looked over at Neal. "You sure you're ready for this? You've only been awake for a few minutes."

Neal rolled his eyes. "Apparently I've been sleeping away my life. It's now Tuesday and the last thing I remember was Saturday morning. Aren't you supposed to keep me calm? How can I relax, not knowing what's been going on?" His voice was strong and his raised eyebrows boded he wasn't about to take no for an answer. Peter was uneasy about how calm he would feel after hearing the details, but Neal had crossed his arms and was looking more stubborn by the moment.

Henry shrugged. "Okay, but you've got to keep drinking that water or we stop." He turned to Peter. "The doctor gave him strict orders to drink to help cleanse the poison from his system."

Neal slurped the water noisily with his straw. "Satisfied?" he said with a glare. "Now start talking." Neal, the smartass was quickly resurfacing. Peter was breathing easier by the moment.

"What's your last memory?" Peter asked.

Neal relaxed into his pillows. "It was Saturday morning. I had coffee on the terrace … oh, and chocolates. Sara sent me Mascleta chocolates. They're named after a fireworks spectacle that's popular in Spain." Neal chuckled, and Peter didn't say anything, not wanting to break into his chain of thought. "Ever since that Fourth of July fireworks display in Baltimore we've been teasing each other about fireworks. Let's see . . . I took a shower. I remember feeling hot and going outside to cool off." He paused, furrowing his brow. "I looked over the balcony . . . Fowler! He was there in the bushes." Neal sat upright, staring at them. "Did you find him?"

Henry shook his head. "Not yet. We'll talk about him later. What happened next?" He pointed to the mug.

Neal settled back and sipped some more water. "Fowler sneaked around the corner of the house. I lost sight of him and climbed down the wall to follow him. Then I —" He stopped to consider for a few moments. "That's it. My mind's a blank afterward." He looked over at them. "Any other reports of Fowler being in town?"

"I don't think he was there," Peter said. "You most likely hallucinated him."

His eyes widened. "You mean I'd already been poisoned? When? The coffee?" He scanned both their faces.

Henry shook his head regretfully. "Sorry, kiddo. An atropine derivative was found in the chocolates."

His eyebrows climbed into his hair. "Death by chocolate? Sara poisoned me?" He stared at them incredulously.

"We don't think Sara did it," Peter hastened to explain. He related the sequence of events with Henry providing details of the rescue and where he'd been hiding. At the conclusion, Peter asked, "Did you follow all that?"

Neal nodded mutely.

"Good, because that's the last you'll hear about tunnels from me. In the official report you're described as having fallen down a manhole and that's what I'm saying from here on out."

Neal nodded gratefully. "Thanks, Peter."

"Just promise me, you'll be very careful around _manholes_ in the future."

"I'll second that," Henry added. "You can't count on me to always be around to rescue you."

"So you, Richard, and Aidan . . .?" Neal asked. Henry nodded, giving Neal time to process it. Peter was glad that Neal was focusing on the tunnels, not the poisoning itself, but he knew it wouldn't last.

An orderly knocked on the door, bringing in a lunch tray. Neal had been placed on a soft diet. Henry had ordered soup, yogurt, and pudding for him. Neal claimed not to be hungry but Henry continued to prod him by holding off answering his questions till he ate.

"You said I was delirious. What was I ranting about?" Neal asked. His tone was light, but there was a guarded look to his eyes.

Henry must have noticed it too. "Nothing incriminating. You were mainly muttering in French. Richard was the only one who understood you. He said you were talking about Richelieu and the musketeers."

"That was our name for Fowler."

"You'll have to fill me in on the exploits of the Three Musketeers someday. Richard and Aidan, or should I say Porthos and Aramis, were disappointingly vague."

"I'd like to be there for that conversation too," Peter added.

"Oh, you're not interested in that old tale, are you?" Neal dismissed. He turned to Henry. "Anything else?"

"You were quite the polyglot. A little Italian, German. Nothing that made sense. Oh, you called me Klaus a couple of times. Who's Klaus?"

Neal puzzled for a moment, shaking his head. "Maybe Santa Claus? You must have been grimy from the tunnels, sorry, manhole. I probably thought you were St. Nick coming down the chimney." He took a spoonful of vanilla pudding, making a face. "Don't they have smoothies here?"

"I'll text Angela to bring you one," Henry promised. "She's coming over in the afternoon."

Neal turned to face Peter. "So you suspect Sighin' Bryan tried to do me in? How will you prove it?"

Peter explained what the team members were working on.

"Win-Win's researching the poison," Henry added. "Before coming to New York, Bryan spent the previous week in Tokyo. Sara told us she rejected his proposal on April 16. We suspect that was the trigger, but he may have formed his plans well in advance."

Peter kept a watchful eye on Neal while he asked Henry about Win-Win's investigation. Neal had at first kept up with the conversation but his head was now falling toward his chest and he was repeatedly blinking his eyes to stay awake. Peter nudged Henry and nodded in Neal's direction. "I brought some files to work on. Would you like to take a break?"

Henry shook his head. "Thanks, but I can contact the office from here. Angela's coming soon with that smoothie."

Neal struggled to sit up straighter. "The doc said I could go home tomorrow. Neither one of you needs to stay now. There's a guard outside. I'll be fine."

Henry looked skeptical. "I've had enough hospital games to last me for several years, and having a guard outside doesn't mean you might not climb out the window and escape."

Neal smiled sleepily. "I could, you know."

"We have complete confidence in your abilities," Peter said. "So humor us if one of us stays with you."

**NY Presbyterian Hospital. May 4, 2005. Wednesday morning.**

When Peter arrived at the hospital the next day, he found Henry standing outside in the hallway. "Is the doctor examining him?"

"No, Fiona called. I'm giving him some privacy."

"Were you here all night?"

He nodded. Henry's clothes were rumpled and his scruffiness had gotten to the point it made Peter's chin itch to look at him.

"I'm planning to stay a while. If you want to take off, go home and  . . ."

Henry grinned. "Neal was trying to send me the same message. Had the temerity to claim the air was getting too rich for his liking. I may take you up on it."

"Have you told Neal about Sara?"

"Not yet. I thought you'd like to tell him."

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

"So Sara is released?"

"That's right." Seeing Neal's face light up made Peter grateful Henry had let him deliver the news. "Yesterday evening we took Bryan into custody. Diana and Jones found a hotel employee who'd seen Bryan deposit the package on the concierge desk. She's identified him in a lineup. Not only that. Travis was able to prove that the recording of Sara was a patchwork of various messages. Although by itself, it doesn't incriminate Bryan, it does establish that someone tried to frame Sara. Win-Win's tracking down leads on where Bryan bought the poison. The cocktail he used is a known yakuza favorite. Bryan was in Tokyo the week before coming to New York. He may have obtained it there."

Neal was looking a hundred percent better from the previous day. He was off the IV. The attending physician had given the okay for him to be released in the afternoon if the blood results came back satisfactory. Now that he was feeling so much better, no one wanted to risk what trouble a bored Neal would get into at the hospital.

"You sent the guard home?" he asked.

Peter nodded. "We're confident we got our man. You may now resume eating chocolates."

"Thanks," he said with a chuckle. "How did Sara hold up?"

"Under the circumstances quite well. The frame attempt knocked her for a loop, and she's gone through a guilt trip, holding herself partially responsible for Bryan's actions. But Sara's strong. She'll come out of it okay. Just like you."

"Thanks to the help of a lot of friends. Richard, Travis, and Aidan came by yesterday evening. What happened Monday is giving Aidan ideas for a new film. He's talking about collaborating with Mozzie on a tunnel flick, blending aliens and horror. Richard wants the gaming rights. I'm not sure if they're serious or they were simply trying to entertain me."

"Just as long as you're not the hero. I don't want to give Azathoth any ideas."

"He's got enough already, doesn't he? Aidan told me that his malware was activated at the Met. Do you have any news about it?"

"Travis and his team are combing through the surveillance camera feeds since the signal was received. So far they haven't identified any criminals. There's been no attempted break-in. Aidan called this morning to report that they've been able to trace the signal through Budapest to London."

A soft knock was heard on the door. When Peter opened it, he was surprised to see Professor Stockman. Judging from Neal's look of astonishment, he was too.

"I hope I'm not coming at a bad time?"

"Not at all," Neal said, sitting up straighter in bed, "I'm honored. You remember Peter?"

"Of course," she said, shaking his hand, "and please call me Myra." She glanced over at Neal. "You can too, unless you prefer The Dragon Lady. I'll answer to either." Neal snorted, and she grinned back at him. "A first-year exhibition can be a traumatic ordeal but most students don't wind up in the hospital because of it."

Peter carried a chair over for her to sit next to him. "And Neal didn't either."

She nodded. "I wondered why I wasn't seeing you at the exhibition and asked Richard. He told me someone tried to exact revenge because of a case?"

"Something like that," Neal said, "but I don't die that easily. I'm going home this afternoon."

"Good," she said, nodding with satisfaction. Adopting a stern face, she added, "Take those emotions and transfer them to canvas. That can be your first assignment for next year's Thesis Exhibition."

Neal's eyes widened. "Yes, ma'am."

Peter shook his head, chuckling. "What's your secret in instilling instant obedience? I could use that."

She leaned close to him and said in a loud stage whisper, "It's all a matter of inspiring a reign of terror. You should come to one of the seminars I conduct for the other professors on the subject."

"Oh, no, " Neal said, making an _X_ with his hands. "He's not allowed. Isn't one Impaler enough?"

Her eyes danced. "Is that what you call me? I hadn't heard that one. I love it. I'll add it to my collection." She paused. "I hear you'll be staying at Columbia beyond next year. Congrats on being accepted into the PhD program."

"Thanks. I intend to continue celebrating that as soon as I'm released."

"Your advisor has been talking with me about options for the program. In lieu of teaching assistant work, Vanya has proposed you conduct a master series of demonstrations on techniques used by old masters. They sound intriguing. I'd like to sit in on them. In fact the entire faculty may wish to. We may not have room for any students."

Peter was amused to see Neal's reaction to Myra attending his demonstrations. Her devilish streak was just the medicine he needed.

"If you can manage to avoid being killed, I'd say your future looks bright. You may even be able to quit your day job if you wish."

"Now wait a minute," Peter protested. "Don't put ideas in his head."

"I'm sure his head is already stuffed with them. Usually new artists face immense challenges in gaining recognition, but Neal's off to a great start. He's already sold two paintings."

"Two?" Neal echoed in disbelief.

She nodded. "That's one of the reasons I came to see you." She turned to Peter. "I believe you know we include a sales catalog for the exhibition, pricing the works at what the faculty considers a reasonable value. As a practical matter, the prices are high enough, that the works are seldom sold."

"Which ones were bought?" Neal asked.

" _Shapeshifter_ was sold the first evening," she said.

"Who bought it?"

"An architect. He told me he was remodeling a loft for a client and intends to include it in the design."

"Do you know the name of this architect?" Neal asked skeptically.

She checked her notepad. "Eric Vasquez."

Neal laughed. "That doesn't really count. That was for my cousin. I won't take his money."

She shrugged. "He's already paid. I don't know your family situation, but it's a legitimate sale. I wouldn't be hasty to reject it."

Peter also urged him to reconsider. "The way I look at it, Henry will derive a great deal of pleasure out of being your first customer. You should let him."

"That does sound like Henry," Neal admitted with a grin. "Always wanting to be first." He turned to Myra. "You said another painting was sold."

She nodded. " _Exposed_."

Peter wasn't surprised to hear the name. It was a dramatic work. For his taste it was too harsh, but that may have been because he knew the background of the painting. He was glad to hear someone bought it. Neal had poured his emotions from watching Klaus Mansfeld die at the Met into that painting. Peter worried that as long as he held onto the painting, he'd never fully get over the experience.

"Do you know who bought it?" Neal asked.

She checked her notes. "Albert Wilmarth." She looked up. "Is he also an acquaintance?"

Neal shook his head. "No, I haven't heard of him, but the name sounds familiar." He stopped to consider, his brow furrowing. "Did you talk with him?"

"No. The sale was made on Monday morning. He left a deposit and said he'd get back in touch at the conclusion of the exhibition next week."

After Myra left, Peter pulled out his laptop.

"You don't need to stay," Neal said. "You have work to do. Henry's coming by later to give me a ride to the loft."

"Just checking on something." It didn't take long to find confirmation for his suspicion. But what was the meaning?

"What is it? Are you researching Wilmarth?"

"That name's not very common. Albert Wilmarth is a character in a Lovecraft story, 'The Whisperer in the Darkness.' "

"You think Azathoth wants to buy my painting?" Neal asked incredulously. "Why?"

"I don't know. Is this another one of his games? It could be a coincidence, but given the background of the painting, I'm suspicious. You thought the pearl lion was a reference to your time with Klaus. Now this painting?"

"But how would Azathoth know of the connection? You're the only one who knows the story behind it. When Myra asked about it, I simply told her it was a depiction of death."

Peter considered a moment. "You started the painting immediately after the incident. If someone were monitoring your actions, they could have put two and two together. We have evidence of him tailing us beginning on October 20. Klaus was killed almost a month earlier. When Henry gets back, I'll go to Columbia and see if I can find out anything more about the buyer."

Neal shook his head. "It's not necessary to wait."

Peter quieted him with one look. "I'm not taking any chances and you shouldn't either."

**June's mansion. Thursday morning.**

"I'm glad I scheduled a do-over for last Saturday morning," Neal said, sighing in contentment. He and Henry were sitting on the terrace. The morning was as beautiful as last Saturday. He had his Italian roast coffee in front of him. His one challenge of the day had been to get dressed. That arduous task accomplished, he had nothing else on his schedule. Peter had already ordered him to stay at home for the rest of the week, and he wasn't about to argue.

Henry had come over for breakfast. He'd stopped on the way to pick up the almond croissants Neal loved and the glazed donuts Henry craved.

"Wait till you see the terrace Eric has planned for me," Henry said. "The view can't compare but I'll have a fire pit and grill, hammocks, cable outlet, and a state-of-the-art sound system."

"I wish you'd let me give you that painting. Then I won't feel guilty about all the freeloading I plan to do at your place."

"Out of the question," Henry said firmly, "and I fully expect you to be hanging out there as much as you want. I did my part by picking a location so close to your office. As for the painting, I'd given Eric instructions to find something for that huge bare space in the living room. All I told him was to get something large that didn't make me puke. I had no idea he'd settle on one of yours."

Neal rolled his eyes. "Do you think I'm still knocked out from whatever they gave me in the hospital?"

Henry chuckled. "Just testing. I admit I picked out that painting. Given your opinion of my knowledge of art, you may not be pleased to hear it."

"You caught me," Neal said with a laugh. "What made you choose that piece?"

"I think it picked me. There's a vitality about it—a feeling of quicksilver, 'catch me if you can attitude.' Insolent and carefree. And then when I saw the title, I knew it was the one."

Henry couldn't have expressed better what he was trying to achieve. Were his art skills better than Neal had given him credit? "I'm glad you bought it. I hadn't intended to sell it. It's my personal favorite."

"Then you better visit it often. It gives me distinct pleasure at being your first client. I am your first client, right?"

Neal shrugged. "The first one to buy a Neal Caffrey."

"Did you sell any as d'Artagnan?"

"No, that alias is known for other feats."

"As payment for my _largesse_ "—Henry grinned as he said the word—"You like my French? How about filling me in on d'Artagnan's exploits?"

Neal obliged with a dramatic account of the Three Musketeers and the con they'd pulled on Fowler. "Peter only knows some of this," he cautioned at the end. "He knows nothing about the roles Richard, Aidan, Travis, and Mozzie played although I'm sure he suspects much of it. I haven't told him how the con worked nor ever admitted to possessing Marie Antoinette's diamonds."

Henry nodded. "D'Artagnan's secret is safe with me. So when you were mumbling about Richelieu in the tunnels, you meant Fowler?"

Neal shrugged. "I guess. I can't remember." He drained his cup of coffee.

"You want some more?"

Neal grinned. "Sure, Jeeves. I could get used to having a man-servant."

Henry stood up to fetch the coffee. "Don't get too spoiled. I'm meeting with Eric this afternoon to work on the office space. The advance Win-Win team is supposed to arrive in a few weeks and we'll have to hustle to have anything for them to sit on." Henry took Neal's mug and returned with a fresh one, while Neal basked his face in the sun like a lizard.

Neal wrapped his fingers around the mug and breathed in the steam. "After Monday's adventure, you interested in joining the musketeers? I know a great fencing coach."

"If by that you're referring to yourself, sign me up. Do you have a name ready?"

"How about Planchet? He was d'Artagnan's servant. That sounds like an appropriate job for you."

"Hmm." Henry pondered a moment. "I was thinking more along the lines of the captain of the musketeers. Someone who could act as a mentor or wise counsel."

"There's Monsieur de Tréville. He was the captain and acted a little like a mentor, but you couldn't even pronounce the name."

Henry snorted. "You might be surprised. I'm working on that. If I'm going to be in New York, rescuing you from all the messes you get yourself into, I better adapt."

Neal smiled. He could get used to having Henry around. "Okay, _Henri."_

"Say that again."

"It's pronounced _ahn_ as in ornery. In fact, just leave out the middle syllable and you got it. So, Ornery Henri, consider yourself a musketeer in training. Care to join me at the Chelsea Fencing Club for your first lesson?"

"Bring it on. You'll have a lot more time in the summer, and I could use the exercise."

"I've noticed you're getting a little flabby."

"Watch it kiddo. You may be recuperating but I could still squash you with my flabby weight."

Neal fell silent as they both relaxed in their loungers, enjoying the sun. He'd already decided, but since the events of the past few days, it was even more necessary. Henry knew about Keller. He knew about the musketeers. It was time to bring another ghost out of the closet. He looked over at Henry who was gazing calmly over at the Chrysler Building. "In the hospital you asked me who Klaus was, remember?"

"He wasn't Santa Claus, was he?"

Neal shook his head and added, "Although for a while he acted like one. Those Europe years I've been keeping you in the dark about? I never told you about Klaus Mansfeld, and this will take a while." Describing his life with Klaus and Chantal in Geneva took longer than he'd expected, but once started, Neal was eager for Henry to understand it. He was patient with Henry's questions.

"So they became your family?" Henry asked.

Neal knew it hurt, but it was important Henry understood. "Chantal became in effect my older sister and Klaus …"

Henry said it for him. "He viewed you as his younger brother."

"His relations with his own kid brother were non-existent."

"It wasn't entirely a one-way street, was it?"

Neal shifted his weight in the lounger. "No, it wasn't. It wasn't the same as with you, but falling into the role helped me cope."

"And you still agreed to con him?" Henry said in disbelief.

"Weren't you listening? Once I found out he was a killer, I wanted nothing to do with him. He was moving to New York. I had no choice."

He held up a placating hand. "I get it, but how could Peter have let you take on a job where you were so personally involved?"

"When I told him about Klaus, I didn't mention the extent of our former friendship."

"Ah, now it makes sense. Still, taking someone down whom you'd been so close with, then watching him die . . . that must have done a number on you."

Neal shrugged. "It was necessary. Mozzie was in Europe when I was undercover. We've kept the location of Klaus's death a secret. Mozzie has no reason to suspect I was involved, and you can't tell him. He admires Klaus. He doesn't realize the man was a murderer."

"You're not making it easy on yourself. Is this some sort of self-flagellation?"

"It's not that simple," Neal protested. "Mozzie admires Klaus as a consummate thief. Trying to explain why Klaus was such a threat would be a painful ordeal."

"More than keeping it a secret from him?" he challenged.

Neal didn't answer and was grateful to see June appear. "I thought I'd find the two of you here," she said. "Neal, are you feeling up to having a visitor?"

"Sure, who's here?"

"Sara."

"Mata Hari in the flesh? Bring her on!"

"I heard that, Caffrey," a familiar voice said. Sara walked out on the terrace.

"I told her to come on up," June murmured to Neal. "With Henry here to protect you, I thought you'd be safe."

"June, wouldn't you like to join us?" Neal asked.

"It's tempting but I have a luncheon to attend. Henry, I'm leaving you in charge, even knowing I may regret it."

Henry pulled up a chair for Sara. "What kind of liquid libation would you like—coffee, tea, hemlock smoothie?"

"We can do better than that," Neal countered. "There's a bottle of champagne in the fridge, left over from the reception last Friday. Sara and I need to toast our escape from prison."

She sniffed. "Hospital hardly qualifies as prison. I win hands down."

"Right. You're such a hardened criminal now. Should I start calling you Connie?"

"Suspected, never convicted," she said smugly. "I don't think that arrest even counts."

"Be patient with him, Sara," Henry said. "He's been insufferable ever since we rescued him. I'm waiting till he's home a day before beating him up about it."

Neal snapped his fingers. "Champagne, Planchet," he commanded petulantly.

Rolling his eyes, Henry got up and headed inside. "Try not to kill each other while I'm gone."

Once he left, Sara looked over at Neal, her expression grown serious. "I almost didn't come. I wasn't at all sure how welcome I'd be."

"You shouldn't blame yourself for anything that happened. None of this was your fault."

"I'm not so sure about that. Bryan only made you a target because of me."

"That's true. That's quite a power you have over men."

"Hey, I'm trying to tell you how sorry I am about what happened."

"You don't think I know that, and thank you. I'm sorry, too, for what you had to experience. Not that I was ever imprisoned in the Municipal Correctional Facility."

"What was life like behind bars?" Henry asked, carrying a tray with three flutes of champagne.

"You'll have to wait for the chilling and dramatic account in my memoirs."

Neal eyed her skeptically. "You were held for what twenty-four hours in special quarters, your private room. It hardly counts."

"Hey, that was over thirty-six hours of excruciating torture. I wasn't even allowed a bubble bath."

Neal raised his glass. "Then here's to freedom."

As they clinked glasses, Sara added, "I plan to spend the next several months erasing Sighin' Bryan's memory from my brain." She shook her head gloomily. "How could I have fallen for him? It's humiliating."

"We should all be allowed a period of insanity," Neal said. "I had mine. You spent time in prison, but my insanity blows yours out of the water."

"And let's not even go into my period of insanity," Henry added. "We should make a pact. None of us brings up each other's insanities ever again. Fresh start."

Neal raised his glass. "I'll happily drink to that."

Sara put down her glass and reached into her bag. "I have a peace offering," she said, handing Neal a package.

"Should I open it? Or dunk it in water first before it explodes?"

She raised an eyebrow. "How lucky do you feel?"

"Very." Neal unwrapped the box and chuckled.

"What's so funny?" Henry asked.

Neal held it up. "Mascleta chocolates!"

Sara grinned. "Someone told me you like them, only these don't contain poison."

"You should try one, Henry. The Pop Rocks are a taste sensation."

Henry looked at him warily. "You just want your poor man-servant to be your food taster. I'm on to you, d'Artagnan."

Neal bit into one happily, rolling his eyes in pleasure. "Chocolate and champagne. Who says I don't live a charmed life?"

Henry helped himself to a chocolate. "Sara, are you staying in New York?"

"No, I'm returning to London tomorrow. We have a lot of rebuilding to do in the London office. Mr. Bosch has already talked to me about implementing procedures to ensure the way Bryan was able to take advantage of our system will never occur in the future."

"Peter and I will be in London around the end of May," Neal said. "We'll look you up."

"Please do."

When Sara left, Henry in his new role of Planchet insisted on washing the glasses. "You know she wouldn't be a bad addition if we ever need a woman for a con. Would you consider adding her to the musketeers?"

"She's already helped on a con over the Fourth of July."

"Did she act as Milady or Constance?"

"More of a Porthos, I'd say," Neal said, dodging the issue. He heard a knock on the door to his loft. "She must have forgotten something. I'll get it. Make sure those glasses sparkle, Planchet."

But it wasn't Sara at the door. It was Peter. "I thought I better check up on you two."

"Very wise," Henry said. "We were just entertaining our new accomplice, Sara."

"She's not there yet," Neal cautioned. "Merely because she has a criminal record doesn't mean she escapes being vetted. I think a jewel heist would be a good test, don't you?"

Peter shook his head. "I bust my chops for a year and a half keeping you on the straight and narrow. Henry moves to town, and in a couple of weeks erases all the progress I've made." He turned to Henry and wagged a forefinger at him. "You're a curse when you're not saving lives."

Henry sat down on the couch and crossed his arms behind his head. "You'll come around."

Neal sat down at the dining table. "Have a seat. I'm guessing there's another reason for this visit. Is it Azathoth?"

He nodded. "We can discuss it later."

"You should know, I told Henry about Klaus this morning, so unless it's on some other FBI matter, whatever you have to say, he can hear it, too."

Peter raised a brow. "Good for you."

Neal knew Peter would appreciate the news. Although he was no longer prodding Neal overtly to be more open, he'd made his viewpoint abundantly clear. This was one time Neal could demonstrate he was making progress.

Henry got up and moved over to the table. "Did you find out more about the buyer of Neal's painting?"

Peter nodded. "The gallery director found a letter in her office yesterday. It had been placed there sometime in the morning, but no one saw by whom. It was a typewritten directive canceling the purchase. The prospective buyer had put down a thousand dollar deposit—in cash. That's yours to keep." Peter pulled out a card in a protective sleeve from his briefcase and handed it to Neal. "This was also in the envelope. It's already been dusted for fingerprints."

Neal took it over to his desk and turned the light on to examine it. It looked identical—the color, the design. He supposed he shouldn't be surprised. Not after the lion pendant, the deposit on the painting. Another twist of the knife. 

"What is it?" Henry asked.

Neal didn't answer, but Peter replied for him. "It's a business card. No text. An image of a leopard on a tree branch is imprinted on the card."

"Klaus left this card behind on some of his heists," Neal added, returning to the table. "It was his trademark."

Henry picked up the card to study it. "Let me get this straight. Your painting depicted Klaus's fall at the museum, but the only ones who know the connection are you and Peter. I certainly wouldn't have guessed that was the subject. No offense, but it's a lot of random swipes of paint as far as I can tell."

Neal winced. "That hurts."

"Hey, you know my skills as an art critic are in the cellar. That painting's far too abstract for anyone to know the inspiration. A man places a deposit on it, using the name of a Lovecraft character, and raises the suspicion he either is Azathoth or is acting for him. And now he's linking it to Mansfeld?"

"That about sums it up," Neal said.

"The question is why?" Peter shook his head in exasperation. "Assuming that Azathoth is someone seeking revenge for what happened to Klaus, why would he shower Neal with money?"

"More mind games," Henry said promptly. "You're trying to influence his behavior with Diana's stories. He's making Neal a pawn in his own twisted fiction."

"But he didn't buy the painting," Neal pointed out.

"You have the one-grand deposit," Henry said. "And you should keep it."

"It doesn't seem right," Neal objected. "It's tainted." That painting was beginning to feel like an albatross hung from his neck. Despite Stockman's praise of it, he was starting to wish he'd never painted it. At the end of the exhibition, he should destroy it.

Henry tapped his arm. "Neal, look at me. That's exactly what he expects you to feel. Azathoth wants you to think of his payment as thirty pieces of silver and that you're a Judas. Don't give him that satisfaction. Keep the money. You told me only Peter and you knew what the subject was. Someone else obviously knew. Where did you paint it?"

"I started it in the loft the night it happened and moved it to my studio a few days later."

"Neal was tailed the entire week he worked undercover with Klaus," Peter said. "Jacek and Marta Kolar, the tech specialists, returned to Prague before the attempted heist when their child was injured in a car accident, but they weren't the tails." He turned to Neal. "The tailing must have continued after Klaus's death. You weren't functioning at a hundred percent afterward. You easily could have missed it. There's no security at Watson Hall. Anyone can walk in. You often don't close the door when you're working. In any case, the locks are trivial to pick."

Henry nodded. "Then the tails report to Jacek and Marta what happened. The Kolars are young. They probably idolized Klaus like Neal did."

"That's far too strong a word," Neal protested.

"Is it?" Henry shrugged. "In any case, Jacek and Marta have the skill to be Azathoth. They have the motive. They're reckless. They probably work for Ydrus. You said Ydrus originated in Eastern Europe. All the evidence points to one or both of them being Azathoth."

"I still have my doubts," Neal confessed. "Jacek may be capable of writing the malware, but it doesn't feel right to me that Jacek is Azathoth."

"Or to Tricia either," Peter added. "She believes the profile fits a more mature personality, not a young hacker. On the other hand, look at Neal. He demonstrates an expertise in certain skills that are remarkable at his age. Jacek could have simply been hiding his talents. Klaus may have realized his potential and that's why he selected him."

"And don't forget Marta," Henry cautioned. "She could be the real power."

"That's what Diana feels," Neal commented. "She thinks the revenge motive is more indicative of a woman than a man. That sounded a little sexist to me. I thought she was simply trying to get me to behave at the time."

"Revenge may not be the motive," Peter said, "but Azathoth is using it as a tool. Knowing what he's up to allows us to out-maneuver him."

Seeing Klaus's card had been more unsettling than Neal had first realized. Peter and Henry were both giving him worried looks. Did they expect him to fall apart? He gave them a reassuring smile. "If Azathoth is trying to make me feel guilty, he's going about it the wrong way. I admit it's taken me a while to get over Klaus's death. Perhaps I should thank Azathoth. His actions are doing a great job in helping me exorcise any lingering guilt."

"Good," Peter said, his face relaxing. "Azathoth is growing increasingly brazen. That will lead to more mistakes and ultimately his downfall."

"There's only one of him," Henry added. "There are three of us. I like those odds."

"I'd told Tricia a week ago that it was time for us to pull the ultimate con," Peter said. "It's plain Azathoth believes he can manipulate Neal by bringing up the ghost of Klaus. We can take that knowledge and make it work for us."

Peter talking about pulling a con? Was he simply trying to make Neal feel better? What kind of con would work against Azathoth? Neal suspected he'd be puzzling over that for a long time to come.

**The Mark Hotel, New York City. May 5, 2005. Thursday afternoon.**

"The buyer had already put down the deposit on that Chagall painting. Should I offer him the Seurat instead?" The undertone of displeasure in Anya's voice came through clearly on the phone, a sharp edge that reminded him to tread carefully. The thousands of miles that separated him from Hungary vanished with her call, but he couldn't simply take her into his arms to placate her.

"That sounds best. I may make another attempt later, but it will take time to discover what went wrong at the museum. When I checked the Met's security and realized that the sensors were still operational, I had no choice but to abort the job."

"Your brother's vaunted software is not as reliable as you claimed. In the future, we'll need to take additional precautions."

"I wouldn't jump to any conclusions," he cautioned. "The Met could have installed a security update. The cause is yet to be determined." He glanced around the luxurious suite. "Next time, you may wish to come with me. You'd approve of this hotel. Only three blocks from the Met. So many targets nearby."

"I'd like that, Klaus." He could tell the idea intrigued her. Anya rarely participated in heists now. Was she envious of his freedom? "What news do you have of our cub? Is his recovery on track?"

"Fortunately. No thanks to McKenzie. That man's behavior is inexcusable. Neal could have easily died in that rat warren he fled to. All the plans we've made over the past year would have been for naught."

"I hear your anger," she said quietly, "and share it. Control it. Channel it. Should McKenzie be eliminated?"

"My personal preference is yes, but the man may yet have some value in the future. I advise holding off for the moment."

"We're surrounded by incompetents. Kramer's no better. His failure to alert us about Longthorpe cost us dearly."

"It was my pleasure to take care of Longthorpe personally. I never liked the man. Bourgeois tastes. I regret I couldn't reclaim the Raphaels, but there will be another time. We don't need the money. The satisfaction comes from the ease with which I was able to steal them."

"I'm glad to hear you say that. I have several new targets for you with buyers already lined up."

"Excellent. My work here is done for the moment. Although I didn't obtain the Chagall, visiting the exhibition was reason enough to come. Neal's skill has improved significantly at Columbia. He chose his university wisely. I even talked briefly with his Japanese friend, the one I told you I'd met in September."

"I remember. What was her name?"

"Keiko. She sparked an idea which I think you'll find appealing. We'll discuss it when I return home."

"I'm looking forward to that. I've become quite fond of your beard. It makes you look like a pirate. Did my pirate decide to steal Neal's painting?"

"I discussed it with Rolf. We concluded it was more effective to let him keep it. It will serve as a constant reminder of me."

"When are you coming home?"

"This week, after a brief stop in London. Rolf and I will finish our plans there."

"Were you able to discover why Adler is interested in the Braque painting?"

Klaus shrugged. "Not yet. A private obsession? Whatever his reason, it plays well into our plan. I never suspected when I had Neal steal that painting that it would become the key to control him. Once Neal is in Paris, he'll be ours."

 

* * *

**_Notes_ ** _: Neal's not the only expert at faking death. The Mansfeld brothers are masters as well. How Rolf and Klaus accomplished the deception will be revealed in upcoming stories. You'll find pins of the people talking on the phone in that final scene on the Raphael's Dragon board of our Caffrey Conversation Pinterest site. Raphael's Dragon closes as it began with secrets. Neal's been keeping the Braque painting a secret from Peter and his role in Klaus's death a secret from Mozzie. Both secrets will be featured prominently in the next Caffrey Conversation story, Echoes of a Violin._

_Thanks for reading and your comments! A special shout-out to Penna Nomen for all the insights and beta help she provided. Several of the ideas in this chapter rose out of discussions with her, and her stories were a major inspiration. Henry's period of insanity occurred in Caffrey Disclosure. The phrase "ornery Henri" is a Penna creation._

_Now that Henry's found out about the musketeers, I thought it would be appropriate to write about swordplay in Caffrey Conversation for our blog. Penna wrote about unraveling one of the most cryptic characters in Caffrey Conversation—Kate Moreau._

**_Upcoming Stories_ ** _: Raphael's Dragon ends on May 5, 2005. The next weekend is Mother's Day. Penna is working on a new vignette called Homecoming which will take place over that weekend. She'll post it in the next week or so. Penna's writing magic shines bright in Homecoming—you're in for a treat! That's fitting because in the real world Halloween will soon be upon us._

_Halloween is also the perfect occasion to start a new Crossed Lines story. Crossed Lines is a fusion series I've been writing of Caffrey Conversation with Supernatural. I'll post the first chapter of Witches' Sabbath on Halloween, October 31. You may remember there's a Goya painting called Witches' Sabbath. The mystery revolves around that painting and the disappearance of the Dutchman, Curtis Hagen. The action takes place a week after Mother's Day weekend. Meanwhile, Diana has been impatiently waiting in the wings and will post the next Arkham Files story, The Locked Room, at the conclusion of Witches' Sabbath. Once she's finished posting her story, I'll return to the main storyline with Echoes of a Violin._

**Caffrey Conversation Halloween Trivia Challenge**

We know Mozzie, Neal, and Peter love games. Do you? Spooky times in Caffrey Conversation will be the subject of my Halloween trivia challenge blog post on October 23. If you'd like a sneak peek at the questions, I've listed them below. But you'll have to wait for the post for the answers.

Who wore a vampire costume?  
Where did Neal celebrate Halloween last year?  
Who had a ghost in a closet?  
Which story features a black cat?  
Who likes zombies?  
Which story has vampires on the prowl?  
Who is afraid of ghosts?  
Which story has a house of horror?  
Who warns Neal of the Jane Austen curse?  
Who thought a witch had left her broomstick by his house?  
What is seen circling a church spire?  
When does Neal revisit the lake where he drowned?  
Who has a snake crawl up his leg?  
Where does Neal see bats?  
Who has small creatures living in the rafters?  
  
Bonus Round:  Where does Neal hear an owl hooting?

_HAPPY HALLOWEEN!  
The answers will be posted on our blog on the 23rd and I'll be back with Witches' Sabbath on the 31st._

**_Blog_ ** _: Penna Nomen & Silbrith Conversation: _ [ _www.pennasilbrithconversation.blogspot.com_ ](http://www.pennasilbrithconversation.blogspot.com) _  
_ **_Chapter Visuals and Music_ ** _: The Raphael's Dragon board on the Caffrey Conversation Pinterest website:_ [ _www.pinterest.com/caffreycon_ ](http://www.pinterest.com/caffreycon)


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